


Do You Believe in Fate?

by Kryzanna



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Friends who became strangers, M/M, NBA Player!Aomine, and then fate happened, chef!kagami
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2018-10-16 15:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10574091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryzanna/pseuds/Kryzanna
Summary: Aomine doesn't. Not anymore, at least.That is, until a chance encounter on a stormy night, makes a believer of him all over again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If any of you have been wondering what I've been doing whilst not updating my other fics, it was this. I've been doing this. Hope you enjoy.

It’s always the same dream.

It’s strange, really, because he doesn’t dream a lot these days –and when he does, if he does –this is the only one he remembers.

And it’s nothing special.

Somehow, that makes him hate it. Not because it’s a bad dream, but because he’s sure that once upon a time it felt like a good one, and it just doesn’t, anymore.

He dreams of clouds –an endless sea of them, stretching to the edge of the world, and beyond –and he’s up there walking on them; treading the air that was never meant for mere mortals. The world is somewhere below him –so small and insignificant –but he can’t see it for the greyness of the clouds; can’t hear it for how thick they are. The rest of the dreamscape is dark –like the night sky that lies past the clouds, he supposes –but there are no stars.

There’s just him, alone, with nothing but stagnant, unmoving grey as far as the eye can see. It’s cold, but sometimes he wishes for wind, ( _anything_ ) just so this world could seem less empty.

Less dead.

 

* * *

 

The time on his alarm clock reads just past six. He doesn’t have to be up for hours yet, but there’s no point in trying to sleep again. It won’t work, no matter how hard he tries, and he’d rather not dream of grey clouds and empty skies. 

So instead, he lies there; moonlight trickling in past the curtains he forgot to close the night before, and aimlessly watches shadows chase each other across the ceiling. The early morning silence wears on, taking up its usual residence in the corners of his room as his sheets cool around him; chilled by the cold touch of the empty space beside him. And maybe it’s just because it was the time of morning where shadows played tricks and time ticked by quietly, and still, but suddenly his room feels so very vast, and eerily still.

He’s grown used to it by now.

He’ll pretend he doesn’t mind it –that the empty silence that stretches on doesn’t bother him –but deep down, it aches. (So deep, and for so long that sometimes he didn’t even have to pretend).

It doesn’t hurt today; it’s just what is.

When even the shadows become dull, and the numbers on his alarm clock draw closer to an earthly hour, he pads on clockwork feet to his bathroom and lets the hiss of the shower drown out the silence that lingers in his bedroom. By the time he emerges, dripping and listless, far beneath him the city is waking.

He stands at the window and looks out at the city swarming bright beneath him with his blue eyes hooded and vacant. It should be exciting, to look down at it all from here –to see all the cars and the people, and the way the city lights blossom into life as it greets the day. But it isn’t. From up here, they all look the same to him.

Distant.

His coffee is too hot, and tastes like nothing on his tongue, and out there, clouds swirl against the dark sky.

It looks like it’s going to be another grey day. He’s started to lose count.

Gods, what Aomine Daiki would give to see a little colour in his life.

Today feels particularly monochrome though, and there is a kind of familiar apathy to the way he drinks in the silence of his apartment. It’s a nice place –there’s no denying that (and with how much it cost, it had damn well better be), and he knows he should feel lucky, because his was the kind of life of luxury that most people could only dream about.

And yet…

He didn’t feel lucky.

This penthouse had been his for years –and was probably everything his boyhood self could have ever wished for –but strangely, it’s never quite felt like home. Most days he can push away the nagging sensation that there’s something off –something missing; burying it deep like he’s been doing for years.

Today he can’t.

Today it aches, and that little hole gnaws at him.

He’s not in the mood for reporters today. Truth be told, he’s really never in the mood for them, but today it’s worse –it’s worse because usually the sheer enthusiasm of a mob that adores him is enough to convince himself that he's living the life he’s always wanted, and today it’s not. He hasn’t had _that dream_ in a while, and it’s put him in a sour mood.

Satsuki can tell, as soon as she sees him. As soon as he enters the lobby she’s at his side and fretting like a hen; just like she always did. She’s his manager now, and forever, of course, and she can deal with reporters and endorsers and interviewers in ways he never had a flare for. There’s just so many of them lying in wait outside his building –there always is after a game –fans, and reporters, and who knows what else; all flashing cameras at him and spitting questions his way. How was the game, they want to know. How did you feel when you won? Are you looking forward to the next match?

Aomine doesn’t want to answer, because by now he knows that what he wants to say isn’t what they want to hear.

 _Nothing_ , he thinks to himself dully as he wades through the crowd of faceless strangers, _I felt nothing._

So he lets Satsuki answer for him. By now she’s practiced in the art of knowing what to say and what not to, so it’s safer that way. And that’s in regards to him too –today she doesn’t push him to sign autographs for his fans, and there’s no insisting that he stand, or smile for photographs –-and when he looks at her, there’s a tightness to her smile that makes him think she _knows_ something. Aomine doesn’t know exactly _what_ it is she knows, or thinks she knows, because how could she, when he doesn’t quite understand it, himself?

The camera flashes are starting to hurt his eyes, and the sea of grey suits around him –faceless and insignificant –is starting to make him nauseous. Everything they’re saying is beginning to blur into white noise, but it’s hardly better than the eerie silence he’d left in his apartment.

“Dai-chan!” he hears distantly, but pays Satsuki no mind as the crowd parts for him. She calls for him again and then materialises at his side when he gives no indication that he’s heard her.

“Dai-chan, where are you going?” she chides, latching onto his arm so she won’t lose him in the crowd. He lets her. “ –-The car’s this way.” He knows where the car is, but she sighs before he can tell her that. “You forgot, didn’t you? About the photoshoot?”

He didn’t forget –but that sounds like something he’d do, so he doesn’t bother correcting her. Sometimes that’s the easiest thing to do when she gets like this –and definitely easier than telling her that there’s nothing he’d rather do less right now. Some people in his profession covet the sponsors and the promotions and everything that comes with them –he was one of them once, too, but not anymore. 

“Dai-chan, this endorsement is a big deal,” she reminds him as he dislodges her from his elbow and makes a beeline in the complete opposite direction of where she wants to wheel him. She huffs in protest but doesn’t try to latch on again. “We’ve been trying to get the –Dai-chan, _the car_ –”

“I’ll catch a cab,” he dismisses with a wave; not bothering to look back over his shoulder as he heads for the road. He makes no pretence of sounding enthusiastic, but she doesn’t come after him. Maybe she wants to believe him –or maybe she just knows that there’s no point in arguing. Either way, Aomine is left to slink into the back seat of a cab in peace; the journalists and the rabble all left in Satsuki’s capable hands.

“Where to?” the cab driver asks as he loosens off his tie. The suit he’s wearing feels stuffy and tight, like he’s wearing clothes that aren’t quite his and don’t fit quite right.

 _Anywhere_ , is what Aomine feels slipping off his lips, but he stops himself just in time. Instead, he rattles off what he remembers of the address he’s meant to go to. The place is well-known enough around the city that the driver doesn’t need to ask for anything specific, and in moments the cab pulls out onto the busy street and they’re on their way.

The cab driver is chatty, which Aomine could have done without. He asks what business Aomine has downtown, and hums along sympathetically when Aomine tells him it’s for work. Aomine lets him talk though, about his job and his wife and his two kids, and the third on the way, because the back seat is small, and his legs are long and cramped within moments, and he needs something to distract him from the hollow feeling in his chest that’s rearing its ugly head today.

He watches the city roll by; high rise buildings rising up from the ground until they disappear amongst the grey clouds that seem to blanket the city, and he thinks about the photoshoot he’s scheduled to attend. Satsuki’s right; it _is_ a big deal. They’ve been working towards this for months now, and if everything goes according to plan, there could be some unimaginably big paychecks in his future. Which he knows he’s supposed to be excited about because that sort of thing means that he’s successful; that he’s made it, and made it _big_.

Sometimes in interviews, he gets asked, “ _What’s it like to have everything you ever wanted_?”

They just seem to assume that he does.  

“Actually, I changed my mind,” he tells the cab driver, abruptly cutting off his monologue. He peers absently out the window, resting his chin in his palm. “…Can you take me somewhere else?”

“Uh, sure thing,” the guy replies with a small shrug, “But didn’t you have work?”

“…I don’t feel like it,” Aomine replies; honest, and blank. The driver chuckles at that, like he shares the sentiment, and happens to take a quick glance in his rear view mirror to catch a good glimpse of his rebellious passenger.

Aomine wishes he hadn’t.

The cab driver is a fan.

He can’t think of where he wants to go, so he just tells him to drive in the complete opposite direction of the address he’d given, and to keep on driving. It’s an odd request, but the driver does as he’s bid, even if he now won’t stop nattering nonstop about how Aomine Daiki, Ace Scorer of the fabled Generation of Miracles, is sitting there in _his_ cab. He talks about how great this season of the NBA has been so far and how amazing Aomine’s team is –how amazing _Aomine_ is. There’s no one quite like him, he says, no one who can even come _close_ to him on the paint. It’s the truth, plain and simple, and he says it with such _reverence_ , but it just rings empty in Aomine’s ears.

He’s heard it so many times that it’s long since lost all meaning.

The cab driver doesn’t seem perturbed by Aomine’s silence, and fills the car with mindless chatter as he drives. Aomine doesn’t know exactly how far they go, but eventually the skyscrapers don’t grow so high and the roads become less crowded as the metropolis begins to give way to suburbia. Sunlight peeks through the clouds here, and even though everything seems blurred through his glazed eyes, the streets look just that bit more peaceful now that he’s left the heart of the city behind.

And then something draws his gaze; sharpening into focus unbidden. At first, he’s not even sure why. It’s nothing particularly noteworthy; not by a long shot –just a small, nondescript park with scatterings of trees, a small playground, and a concrete court ringed by wire fencing that has definitely seen better days. But there are people playing on that court –a group of them tossing around a basketball without a care in the world, and even though he’s in here, and they’re out there, he can hear them laughing against the beat of the ball on concrete.

He only sees them for a moment –the cab is still trundling on, after all, and carrying him who knows where –but in that fleeting moment before they fade from his sight, they seem like they were having fun.

A knot takes up residence in the pit of his stomach, and refuses to loosen even when those kids and their shabby court are far behind him. Maybe it’s because he can still hear them ringing in his ears; lost in their game. He was one of them, once upon a time. The thought has a bitter taste that makes him curl into himself and the corners of his lips twitch down infinitesimally.

It’s been a long time since he played streetball.

 

* * *

 

When he pays, the cab driver asks for an autograph. Aomine’s already tipped him fairly handsomely, but signs his cap for him regardless; the thin loops of his signature mechanical and detached from years of dull repetition. He doesn’t understand why it seems to make the older man’s eyes light up, but it does, and he suddenly looks so much younger. 

“Take care,” Aomine mumbles, out of habit more than anything, though he supposes he means the sentiment well enough.

“You too, sir,” the driver replies, and he looks to mean it. He tips his prize cap at him, and his smile seems genuine when he adds, as he pulls away from the curb, “…I hope you find what it is you’re looking for.”

Aomine doesn’t reply. He’s not looking for anything.

 _Not anything that exists, at least_ , he adds to himself.

His phone vibrates again. It’s been doing that an awful lot this last hour or so. He hangs up without bothering to see who’s calling because it’s definitely Satsuki, and she’s definitely going to be furious with him by now. And then, when she’s stopped being furious she’ll start being worried, and that’s a hundred times worse than her scolding. She’ll want to know what’s going on with him, and he won’t know what to tell her.

It’s easier to just switch his phone to silent and let her have it out with his voicemail.

He scans the area as he pockets his phone, drinking in these unfamiliar surroundings. It looks fairly ordinary by any standard –he sees a salon and at least four cafes, and even a dinky little outlet mall; the kind that probably sold cheap clothes and even cheaper food. Nothing in particular strikes his fancy, but then again, he doesn’t expect anything to. He picks a street at random and starts walking –unsure what he’s hoping to find, if he’s even hoping at all.

Unsurprisingly, his aimless wandering leads him nowhere, and he finds himself crammed into a booth in the dusty corner of a burger joint; a pair of ugly sunglasses and a hat that Satsuki would have never let him within a hundred yards of serving as an impromptu disguise so he can eat in peace. He hadn’t realised he was starving until he was standing right outside, so as a result there’s a full tray of burgers laid out in front of him. Cheeseburgers; which is odd because teriyaki is his favourite, but as soon as that horrifically greasy scent had wafted over him, cheeseburgers were damn near all he could think about.

Squashed into that little booth, he unwraps his first burger and takes a bite. It tastes like heart disease on a bun, but he can’t find it in himself to care. His coach never lets him each this kind of crap, and Satsuki’s quite the enforcer of his will, but they aren’t here right now, so he’s gonna let his arteries harden as much as he damn well pleases.

By the fourth burger though, they’ve started to taste like ash in his mouth. Aomine eats them anyways, barely tasting them anymore as he hunches over his private little corner –a world away from the other patrons. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a child at the counter with her mother, and a pair of young men dressed for the office two tables away. On the opposite side of the room there’s a group of schoolkids, still in uniform and obviously bunking, making a game of throwing fries into the empty cup on the table beside them.

Aomine’s suddenly uncomfortably aware of how empty the booth opposite him is.

Just like that, his appetite is gone, and suddenly the tray of burgers in front of him seems like far too many for just one person. Bile rises in his throat as he stares down at his half-finished burger with blank eyes, and he finds that he can’t stomach another bite. Grimacing, he lets it fall back to the pile, and pushes the tray away from himself with a little more force than necessary.

The gesture jostles his elbow in the wrong direction and he’s rewarded with a light prickling in his fingers that serves as an unfriendly reminder of all the whispers that seem to have taken the NBA network by storm. There’s talk –nothing but hearsay as of yet, but talk nonetheless –of him hanging up his Jordans in a season or two. It makes sense, as much as he hates to admit it, even though he’s still technically in his prime, and plays better than half the chumps in the league anyways.

The fact is, he’s getting older, and his elbow isn’t going to hold out for too much longer. Considering the trouble it had given him back in high school it was amazing it had lasted this long. And from what he’s gathered from drunken chats and locker room whispers, it’s always better to retire at the top of your game than be forced out by an injury.

 _Weird_ , Aomine thinks to himself as he idly plays with one of his burger wrappers, and even his thoughts sound hollow. _I always thought I’d play basketball forever_.

When he was a kid, he had believed that with all his heart. He had loved basketball with every fibre of his being; lived and breathed it, and could think of no better life than one where he could play the sport he loved until his heart’s content.

That was the life he had earned. He was living his dream, wasn’t he?

He knows that the very notion of leaving that all behind should outrage him, _horrify_ him, even, but that train of thought just leaves him feeling oddly numb, because these days, when he comes off the court, he doesn’t feel like smiling. His pulse might be racing but his heart isn’t pounding, and the heat that used to fill his veins with the thrill of a fun match; a _good match_ , just…just isn’t there. The points might declare his victory, but he doesn’t feel like he’s _won_ ; doesn’t feel _proud_. He feels nothing; like the fire inside him has died out, and left in its place, something hollow, and grey.

What’s there to be proud of when it wasn’t even a challenge? 

They never seemed to understand that. He’s the best, they’d say, full of pride and awe. They all said it; Aomine Daiki’s unstoppable on the court. Even with a weakening elbow he’s the best player there is. No one can stop him.

Being the best was meant to be enough. It meant he had the all the sponsors and the fans, the glory and the money, and anything that that money could buy.

So why wasn’t he _happy_?

Sure, they said it was lonely at the top, and he’d found that out the hard way. Eventually he’d been knocked from his pedestal, but he hadn’t been afraid to reach those heights once more, because he thought he’d never be alone up there again.

It turns out he was wrong.

 

* * *

 

The burgers in front of him have turned cold. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there except that it’s definitely been too long to linger in a burger joint alone, so he extracts himself from the booth with difficulty. There’s nothing for it; he might as well just keep walking until he’s ready to deal with Satsuki’s fury, because even the thought of hiding out at his apartment makes his insides twist themselves in knots.

He used to love peace and quiet. He could remember days when he would sneak away from class to doze under clouds when he wanted to get away from it all. And how, once upon a time, basketball turned that perfect kind of quiet –the kind where everything else got tuned out, and nothing else mattered but the ball. The crowd, his career, the money, the politics; none of that mattered.

All that mattered was that he was playing the game that he loved.

But basketball these days was noisy. When there weren’t fans in his face there were companies all clambering over each other to sign him, people wanting interviews, league politics…and even the silence of his own little rooftop under the clouds didn’t make him feel peaceful.

It made him feel isolated.

He checks his phone as he walks, free hand stuffed in a pocket. There are over a dozen missed calls from Satsuki, as many voicemails, and an extensive number of texts that he deletes before even reading. They’re always the same anyways. It rings soundlessly while it’s in his hand, and the smiling contact photo marks her as the caller. His thumb hovers over the screen for a moment, because he knows she’s only doing this because she cares, but he still ends the call without answering like he always does.

He’s getting good at ignoring her calls. She still calls though; just to let him know she’s still there.

In his travels, he catches sight of his reflection in a nearby shop window, and cringes, because if he wasn’t the worst-disguised famous person in America, then he didn’t know who was. The cashier that served him at that burger joint must have been dead blind to have not recognised him; or, in typical customer service fashion; too jaded to care. There’s no denying that even with the hat and sunglasses, he sticks out. Even if he weren’t a pushing-seven-foot giant of a human, he’s dressed far too expensive for this part of town, and, bags under his eyes aside, may as well have just walked straight out of a men’s fashion magazine, if he does say so himself.

So, to say that he’s managing to draw attention to himself would be quite the understatement. He’s sure he’s not imagining the way the group of young women across the street are glancing at him too frequently, or the way a stranger does a double take when he catches him in his periphery. It’s only a matter of time before they manage to convince themselves that he’s the genuine article, and he doesn’t want to deal with this again today; alone in a foreign part of town with no Satsuki as a buffer to stave them off.

So he stoops as best he can with his height; ducks his head under his ugly hat and keeps walking. He hopes that they get the message to let him be, but the more he walks, the longer eyes begin to linger on him; like unwelcome hands he can’t shake off. It’s suffocating, and all he wants is to breathe.

 

* * *

 

And, just his luck, his solace comes in the form of a torrential downpour. 

It’s no surprise, really. The clouds have been fit to burst for days now, and today just happens to be his lucky day. The pitter-patter of raindrops dotting the pavement heralds the storm, and sends pedestrians of all makes scuttling for cover. Suddenly, everyone has somewhere to be; scurrying along with purpose, like the rain is washing them on their way.

Aomine though; he doesn’t mind it, and lets the rain swallow him up as it will. It’s coming down hard already; heavy raindrops painting the pavement dark and drenching anyone careless enough to get caught in it. It’s going to ruin his suit, but he doesn’t care. He’s got a dozen just like it.

Darkness descends upon the world as he walks, like the rain has made the world melancholy, and the sky is tired from trying to hold it all in. Aomine can relate. He feels tired, too. And cold, but by now he’s not even sure if it’s from the rain.

In his pocket, his hand unconsciously curls around his phone. When he pulls it out, it feels heavy, and the little green notification light innocently blinks up at him through the rain. Satsuki’s probably worrying herself sick, even though he tells her not to. As much as he’s come to resent that apartment; as numb as his world makes him feel, he always goes back, doesn’t he?

Tonight’s going to be no different. She should know that. _He_ should’ve known that.

On impulse, he unlocks his phone. The voicemails he ignores, because he doesn’t need to hear them to know what they say, but he dares to open some of the new unread texts stagnating in his inbox.

Raindrops splash across his screen and blur some of the words, but he gets the idea.

 _[This has to stop],_ one the messages reads, like she’s given up on threats and begging, and has skipped straight to resignation. _[What are you running from, really?]_

He deletes that one.

But, like she knew he wouldn’t answer, there are still more to come.

_[I hope you’re not out in this storm, Dai-chan.]_

_[You have a game soon, and you need to watch your health!],_ a minute later.

_[You didn’t even take a coat.]_

And then finally,

_[Call me when you’re ready to come home.]_

By the time he finishes reading, the screen is blurring something awful and his phone is just as soaked through as the rest of him. And if rain beads in the corners of his eyes before it rolls off his cheeks, well, no one’s to know.

It’s a good thing he manages to spot shelter up ahead, because the storm is showing no sign of letting up, and his suit is doing nothing to keep the rain’s chill off his skin. In fact, it’s a miracle he even sees it in the first place. And he probably wouldn’t’ve; would have just kept on trudging on and on to nowhere in the pouring rain, if it hadn’t been for the light, glinting out from the gloom like torchlight –red and soft.

It’s not particularly warm, where he finds himself, but it’s out of the wind and the rain, and right now, that’s enough. He toys with his phone with cold hands as he stumbles into the alleyway; the glow of the red fire exit lighting his way. Satsuki’s last text is still sitting patiently on the screen –the kind of supportive that Aomine knows he doesn’t deserve –and even though the screen is still damp, he’s sure that it’ll work if he just hits _call_.

But he doesn’t.

Even if he wanted to, it seems like the world has other plans for him, because as it turns out, the empty alleyway he’d taken shelter in isn’t quite as empty as he’d thought; something that Aomine doesn’t realise until it’s too late –until he ploughs straight into a stranger; phone slipping from his hand to drown upon the concrete.

It’s quite a pathetic fate.

“Shit,” he mutters apathetically –more out of reflex than out of mourning –Satsuki’s gonna chew him out for breaking another one, even though buying another one barely even makes him bat an eye. When he picks it up it feels waterlogged, and the screen is dark.

“Oi,” a deep voice calls out suspiciously, drawing him away from his phone and back to the situation at hand, “What the hell are you doing back here?”

It’s a guy, Aomine realises a little belatedly –a big guy at that; sturdy and built like a tank –and he’s holding a bag of trash and looking kinda like he wants to whack Aomine over the head with it. Aomine doesn’t want trouble, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with _people_ , so he just gives the eaves above them a sideways glance and shrugs, “Just tryin’ to get out of the rain.”

“…And the front entrance wasn’t good enough for you?” the guy snorts, jerking a finger back in the direction of the street. In the dim, eerie lighting, Aomine must’ve looked confused, because a little of the tension slipped from the other man’s shoulders. “…What, you lost, or something?”

_Probably._

“I’m fine,” Aomine assures him, but the words sound hollow even to his ears.

“That’s not what I asked,” the guy insists, biffing his bag of trash into a nearby dumpster with ease. He tosses it like it’s made of air, but it echoes something awful when it lands so must’ve been heavy. There’s a shift to his tone as he dusts his hands off on his trousers –there’s still a rude undertone but now he doesn’t sound quite so hostile. “…Where are you headed?”

Maybe the guy’s just trying to be helpful, but Aomine doesn’t want his help, and certainly doesn’t need it.

“Nowhere.”

The guy just scoffs at his response.

“Fine, be like that,” he huffs dismissively; the scowl evident in his voice even if Aomine can’t quite make it out in the gloom. He doesn’t make to move past Aomine though –instead making a beeline for the door situated under that red light –the one that cast the entire alleyway in an odd, soft hue. “ –But you shouldn’t be loitering in – _jeez, what the hell?_ ”

Suddenly, there’s light flooding the alleyway, and Aomine looks over to see the other man gawking at him; standing in the bright doorway like he’s caught in a moonbeam.

For some reason, Aomine can’t look away.

“ _Shit_ , you’re soaking.”

Well, if that isn’t the understatement of the century.

A lump threatens to rise up in Aomine’s throat but he swiftly chokes it back down. Quite abruptly, he realises the truth of it. He might be out of the storm but there’s no escaping the rain that’s embedded itself in his clothes. His suit jacket is heavy and saturated, and his shirt underneath is clinging to his body like a clammy second skin. His socks are soggy from where puddles have leaked their way into his shoes and that hat; that ugly, ugly hat, is drooping down over the sides of his head.

He must look quite the sight.

Enough of a mess, apparently, for the man in the doorway to feel torn about slamming the door behind him. He lingers there; a hand scrubbing at his head and what looks like a conflicted grimace plastered across his face. Then, he sighs; resigned.

“You wanna…come inside?” he inquires gruffly, jerking his thumb indoors. From where he’s standing, Aomine can see a little of what lies inside. From what he can make out it seems like a kitchen. He can hear laughter, and the clatter of pots and the hiss of oil into a hot pan. Something inside smells delicious, and warmth pours across his face when he moves just that little bit closer –like sunlight dancing just beyond reach.

But…

“Just come inside, dammit!”

 

* * *

 

There’s no way around it, because the guy waits there; holding the door open like he’s willing to wait like that all day. His face tells a different story though; what Aomine can see of his face is thunderous and impatient, like he can hardly believe what he’s doing. But he holds the door nonetheless, arms folded defiantly until Aomine skulks towards the steps. 

He doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s been a long time since someone’s talked to him like that. No one but Satsuki orders him around and gets away with it –and even she, the woman who’s been by his side since they could walk, doesn’t always expect him to listen.

And yet, this guy…

Maybe that’s why he goes inside. Or maybe it’s just because he’s cold, and weary, and so starving for heat that even the meagre warmth coming from a diner kitchen seems inviting. 

After the door closes behind them, warmth engulfs him from all around, and it’s only a few moments before the stiffness in his hands has loosened enough for him to peel his dripping suit jacket off his skin –only realising how much he wanted out of it once he’s rid of it. He feels lighter; less constricted, once it’s gone –always does, because he never feels quite like him when he’s wearing them anyways. The hat and sunglasses he decides to keep on, just in case, but when the glasses start to fog from all the warmth of the kitchen, he gives them a quick clean so he can sneak a glance at the guy who brought him in from the cold.

The first thing he notices is that he’s Japanese, and by the looks of things, a chef or something. If the fact that Aomine’s currently in a kitchen, sitting on a nearly empty crate of onions wasn’t enough of a dead giveaway; the guy’s dressed in chef’s whites, with oil burns dotting his hands and a smudge of flour dusted across high cheekbones. He’s also tall –even by American standards –and when he feels Aomine’s gaze on him, and turns, he finds he has the most vibrant red eyes.

Something hits him square in the face then, and it’s only when he’s tugged it free that he realises what it is. For a moment he just stares down at the towel clutched in the palm of his hand, and then shifts his gaze up to the man standing across from him; questioning.

The guy just cocks his head and raises an eyebrow expectantly. Aomine feels like he’s missing something, but drapes the towel around his shoulders out of habit, and absentmindedly rubs some warmth into his cheek with a corner. The guy just goes back to his business as though nothing unusual has transpired –like he didn’t just drag a sodden, surly stranger into his workplace off the street. He’s rifling through some of the boxes sitting nearby, and for all intents and purposes, looks to have forgotten that Aomine’s even there.

But, more than once, Aomine sees red eyes slide his way.  

“So, what’s with the weird getup?” the guy finally asks, like he’s asking about the weather. It takes Aomine a moment, and the guy gesturing vaguely at his face for him to realise he’s talking about the monstrosities he’d purchased as a disguise. “You famous, or something?”

He grins lopsidedly when he says it; like it’s a joke.

Aomine looks away.

“…Yeah, something like that…” he replies dryly, like he’s just playing along –like it’s none of his business; which it’s not.

He doesn’t expect the guy to _snort_.

“I’m playin’. I know who you are,” he declares, matter-of-factly, and Aomine feels his stomach churn something bitter up into his throat. If the guy notices his grimace, he doesn’t care. “…You’re Aomine Daiki.”

He sounds so _sure_ –like he’s known all along, and Aomine’s mood plummets. No matter where he goes, it’ll all follow him; reminding him of what his life is now, and what he has to go back to.

“Oh, great,” he mutters; slumping and tearing off his pitiful disguise. There’s no point in playing dumb –there rarely is –and if the guy’s a fan ( _they always are_ ) then he’d rather just get this over with and be on his way. He reluctantly thrusts out a hand and all but glares up at the other man with tired eyes. “…Hand it over, then…”

The guy just stares at him.

“Hah?”

Irritation ticks in Aomine’s brow as he offers his hand more insistently.

“C’mon, let’s get this over with. You want an autograph, right?”

Still, the guy stares –slack-jawed and somewhat incredulous.

And then he laughs, and it’s Aomine’s turn to stare, because he’s sure he didn’t say anything particularly funny. But for some reason, the guy laughs like he’s just heard the joke of his life; shoulders shaking uncontrollably and his arms clutching at his stomach like it’ll burst if he doesn’t. It’s a bright sound –full and thick, like the laughter is bubbling up from deep inside and there’s nothing he can do to keep it down. It’s so warm, and honest, and for some reason it rings in the back of Aomine’s ears like something he’d heard a long time ago –something important enough to commit to memory.

The guy’s laughter dies away into a chuckle before he can question it. There’s a dumb grin on his face, like he can still hardly believe what he’d just heard, (Aomine wonders, with a pang of irritation, if they’d even heard the same thing), and a nostalgic kind of sigh leaves his lips, as he scrubs his fingers back through his red hair.

“…You really haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

 _What_?

 _What’s that supposed to mean_?

His confusion must show, because a moment later the grin fades from the redhead’s face and he swallows as though he regrets saying anything.

“Ah….wouldn’t expect you to remember me,” he chuckles, though it has none of the earlier warmth, and for the briefest moment, he sounds almost sad. And stranger still, Aomine has to push away a sense of _guilt_ , which is _ridiculous_ , because sometimes it feels like he sees _thousands_ of people a day, so how is he supposed to recognise one guy, who works in a no-name kitchen, in a part of town he never even comes to? The guy rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, shifting his weight off the wall as he tries again, “…We uhh, went to high school together. Kinda.”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal or anything that Aomine can’t seem to place him, but Aomine suddenly feels like he should; like this is a face he should be able to recall. So he tries –he doesn’t quite know why, but he tries –staring at those dark eyes and the face before him, and trying to figure out just where they sat in his past.

High school was a long time ago, after all, and he barely remembers anyone from back then. A lot of it is all a blur; fogged up in a cloud of grey. He remembers that, at least –that for a while there, everything was grey.

Something pulls Aomine to look at him again, and when he does, his stomach drops.

_Until one day, there was red._

As simple as the flick of a light switch, it all clicks into place. 

“…Kagami…Taiga, right?”

His voice sounds quiet –the Japanese name on his tongue old and hoarse from disuse, but familiar all the same. The guy turns to look at him, a box tucked under his arm and a small, lopsided smirk on his face, like it’s taken him long enough to get it.

“It’s been a while, Aomine.”

 _Kagami_.

Aomine doesn’t know what to say.

Actually, that’s not quite the truth, but where to even start, when he hasn’t seen him in so many years?

And yet, it doesn’t take more than a moment to realise that Kagami’s watching him –like his sixth sense for it; one honed through hours upon hours of feeling those eyes on him –is still there; like it’s been waiting all this time. He looks up automatically, and Kagami jerks his head onwards, indicating for him to follow. 

“C’mon,” he offers, and there’s a trace of that laugh back in his voice. “I gotta get back to work, but you can come dry out in the kitchen, if you want?” He glances down at the crate that he’s sitting on, and chuckles, and the sound makes the hairs on Aomine’s arms prickle, “Unless you’d rather hang out with the trash?”

“Oi,” Aomine grits out before he can stop himself, because it feels like a goad, and Kagami smirks as though that was exactly the kind of reaction he’d hoped for. “…I’ll come, all right?” he concedes flatly, unfolding from his makeshift stool and gesturing for Kagami to lead the way.

“Great,” Kagami deadpans, then snickers as he leads them deeper into the kitchen, “…Sorry about your phone, by the way,” he adds, flinging an apologetic look back over his shoulder, “We’ve got one here, if you wanna y’know…call someone?”  

“Nah,” Aomine mutters dismissively, but even though he looks away he can still feel Kagami staring at him like he’s waiting for him to say something else. When he doesn’t, the redhead just sighs, and pulls up a stool for him at a nearby bench.

“…Whatever you say,” he snorts, like he doesn’t believe him.

“Hey, Taiga, we’ve got three more tables coming up!” a guy hollers from over at the pass, and Kagami straightens up.

“Coming!” he shouts back, with a sudden seriousness about him that draws Aomine in and makes him unable to look away. And when Kagami spares him a last glance, there’s a brightness burning in his eyes that sends him reeling back through the years to a time when his own eyes burned that bright.

“…Let me know if you change your mind,” he shrugs, as Aomine sinks down onto the stool and surveys his surroundings. It’s louder in here than it was out by the door –warmer still, if that were possible –and there are a bunch of guys all in whites scurrying about the kitchen. A couple of them spare him a glance, but at a sharp word from Kagami their eyes are back on their pans and they’re back to work as though having a celebrity loitering in the back of their kitchen is really no big deal.

Aomine slumps in his stool, pushing his soggy sleeves up past his elbows as best he can so he can rest them on the bench in front of him, and contemplate why he turned down Kagami’s offer. Only minutes ago he was the press of a button away from calling Satsuki and letting her whisk him back to the real world.

And then, who should come hurtling out of the darkness, but _Kagami Taiga_. The last time Aomine had seen him, he was little more than a seventeen year old with basketball on the brain. Now… _now_ …

He sneaks a glance across the room to where Kagami is meticulously cutting up vegetables with a small crease to his brow. He’s taller, now, but Aomine’s sure he still has an inch on him; broader, too, but his face hasn’t changed much. Maybe it’s older; his jaw thicker and his brow stronger, and maybe there’s now a shadow of stubble that had still been scraggly when Aomine had known him –but it’s still the same face.

Now, he’s a man.  

And Aomine can’t help but wonder what he’s doing here –how he got here, and why he stayed. It shouldn’t matter, because it’s been long enough that it shouldn’t, so he should just call Satsuki and walk away; leave Kagami Taiga as the distant memory he was supposed to be.

But even as he thinks it, he knows he can’t. He can’t, because whenever he tries to look away, his eyes can’t help but be drawn back to Kagami. It’s a dusty reflex he remembers well; a kind of second nature left over from when they were kids. Back then, Kagami had had this...this… _presence_ that always demanded attention. It was just like him; loud, and fierce, and by the end of it, blindingly bright.

The part of him that still dared to dream of a world in colour had thought it was calling to him. The rest of him had tried to ignore it. But he’d been pulled towards it regardless, and caught, all the same. And when they were on the court together, it had been almost impossible to look away.

Those days might be long over, but even here, watching from the side-lines, his gaze keeps lingering on Kagami –following him as he flies around the kitchen with purpose. It looks so easy –so effortless –the way he handles the room; chopping vegetables and carving meats and barking orders at the rest of the chefs. It’s almost hypnotic, the way he moves; bold, yet a kind of meticulous that Aomine had never known him to be. 

Steam is rising up all around them; beading on his skin and leaving his thick arms shiny and damp. It doesn’t seem to bother him or break his stride –he merely grabs a spare towel hanging nearby and wipes his face down; leaving his cheeks rosy and his hair rumpled in every which direction.

Aomine swallows hard, and looks away when Kagami catches him looking. But like clockwork, his gaze is tugged back to him in a moment, in time to see Kagami’s balled-up towel sail across the kitchen. One of his co-workers shouts for him to stop showing off when it lands directly in the open laundry basket, and Kagami pauses just long enough to grace Aomine with smug smirk and a small wink; eyes gleaming so bright his breath catches in his throat.

“Hey, boss!” one of the chefs hollers out, “There’s a couple out at table eleven who want to meet the chef!”

“ –Dunno why they’d want to see _his_ ugly mug – _ow_!” Another hoots, and yelps when Kagami whips him with a tea towel on his way past.

He’s not gone long, and when he comes back, his eyes are twinkling and it looks like he’s trying to hold back a grin. The mouthy chef from earlier is quick to point out the proud blush rising high on his cheeks and that starts up a ruckus of teasing that has Kagami’s tea towel cracking again, and him telling them to all go fuck themselves. It’s all good-natured fun though, it seems, because his grin is full-force in moments and the other chefs are laughing even as they pretend to cower before him. 

Then the bell rings at the pass and they’re back to work like they hadn’t just been horsing around like teenagers a moment before. The smack talk lingers though; hashed in with orders and encouragement, and a couple of times a congratulatory hand lands on Kagami’s shoulder in passing.

There’s something _comfortable_ about it, and it’s weird how at ease Aomine feels in here even though he’s a complete outsider. There’s an energy to the kitchen –something welcoming, and almost tangible that warms the air and anything in it.

Aomine included.

He didn’t think he was spacing out, but gauging by how he almost fell off his stool when someone other than Kagami appeared at his side, he was.

 _Weird_. It’d been a while since he phased out like that.

The guy doesn’t say anything though, just holds out a bottle of beer dripping with condensation, and slides a bottle opener across the bench to him. Aomine looks from the proffered drink to the man holding it and frowns, unsure. 

“Boss said you looked a bit thirsty,” the guy says easily, with a half shrug and a wicked glint in his eye as Aomine accepts the beer. “…I gotta say, I agree with him,” he adds offhandedly, but Aomine’s attention has already shifted. 

 _He’s been watching me_?

He is. But when Aomine catches him looking, he averts his gaze, like he wasn’t. Aomine’s gaze lingers though; he can’t help it when Kagami looks so absorbed in what he’s doing. It must be exhausting, and complicated, but he weaves around the kitchen tirelessly, focus knitted into his brows. It’s intense, watching him work, but Kagami had always been intense –radiating a kind of heat that might burn whoever got too close.

On the court, it had been a heat like no other, and seeing it again, so far from the game that fed it, makes Aomine wonder, for the first time in a long time. He wonders about his old rival; wonders how he ended up here –what must have happened for this to be his life. It was always basketball, with them. It was everything. It was Aomine’s dream, and he’d been so sure it was Kagami’s too.

And yet, he looks happy here.

Aomine sees it in the way he grins at his co-workers; in the little, contented smile he wears when he’s finished with a meal –when he hears one of the waiters come in with compliments. He can feel it in the air when the chefs juggle spices and laugh, and when they hum a pop song out of tune. Two of them share a fist bump when a ticket is cleared, and Kagami beams at them with unadulterated pride, like this was all he wanted in all the world. 

It’s a pure, simple kind of happiness –one that heals everything it touches, and the hole in Aomine’s heart suddenly aches –the one that’s sat inside him for so long it had become just another part of him –because this is something he hasn’t felt in so long. So long he thought he didn’t even want it anymore.

He swallows, and takes a quick chug of his beer to wash down whatever had been trying to crawl out his throat. It doesn’t taste bad, but it does nothing to sate the suddenly glaring emptiness within him.

Nothing does.

He hangs his head, pushing his empty bottle aside and gazing down at his hands through blank eyes. They curl into fists before his eyes.

Distantly, he hears something being set down on the bench, but doesn’t look up until a steaming plate is pushed under his nose. It’s a curry, by the looks of things; looks like any other curry he’s had over the years, but it smells….

Aomine breathes deep, despite himself, and a low, earnest hum escapes his throat before he can stop it.

 _It smells delicious_. 

He looks up and finds Kagami staring down at him expectantly; holding a pair of beers loosely in one hand.

“…You’re hungry, right?” he asks, but at the same time it’s not really a question.

“…No,” he mutters, off reflex, because usually he isn’t, because usually everything turns to dust in his mouth. But this time he can’t imagine how something that smells so good could ever do just that, and Kagami catches him in his lie when his stomach growls spectacularly.  

“You’re impossible,” Kagami snorts, and lets out a long-suffering sigh as he sinks into a nearby stool. He must be taking a quick break, since he cracks open one of the beers for himself; the other he pushes across the bench for Aomine. “Y’know, it wouldn’t kill you to admit you want to eat my food, for once.”

The beer, Aomine accepts, but he still stares down at the meal laid out in front of him; a knife and fork neatly placed to one side like it’s been prepared especially for him.

 _Oh_.

“You…made this?” he clarifies, “…For me?”

Kagami laughs around the rim of his bottle at that; it’s hearty and warm and a nostalgic kind of familiar.

“Well, yeah?” he snorts, with a light roll of his eyes, “You’re just sittin’ here like a drowned rat.” He spares a look at Aomine’s still-damp clothes and shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Least I could do was make you a hot meal.”

“Oh,” Aomine manages mumble, looking down at his plate and mechanically reaching for the cutlery. “It….It looks…looks good.” He finds he means it.

“It’s nothin’ special,” Kagami assures him, looking away, and when Aomine chances a look up, there’s a little bit of pink dusting his cheeks. He looks pleased. “…It’s uh, kind of a crowd favourite.”

Even after only a single bite, Aomine can see why.

It tastes as good as it smells. Gods, he almost chokes on his first bite because it’s been _such a long time_ since he’s had anything that comes close to how this tastes right now. The meat and rice are cooked to perfection, and the gravy is just the right amount of creamy, and when he manages to swallow it feels like it’s warming him from the inside out. Within moments he’s devouring it ravenously, because the truth of it is that he’s starving.

The thing is; he knows it’s just curry. He’s had master chefs cook for him before, but none of them have ever come close to this, so why the _hell_ does it taste so good?

He only has to open his eyes to know.

It tastes like a time when he was happy.

It tastes like high school. It tastes like the long evenings in summer; like Kagami’s kitchen in winter; tastes like a training camp in their last year of high school where Kagami had saved them all from getting food poisoning from Satsuki. Aomine had had four servings that night, and sworn himself blue he didn’t. He hadn’t fooled anyone.

There’s silence between them for a long moment as Aomine shifts his gaze back to his food –anything to escape the feeling that he’s seventeen years old again and eating a home-cooked lunch in the living room of Kagami’s old apartment. It’s a hard thing to shake off when Kagami himself is sitting across from him as though no time has passed at all.

In the end, it’s Kagami who breaks the silence, setting his beer down on the countertop and chuckling, despite himself.  

“This is crazy, right?” he asks, and Aomine glances over his beer to catch him scratching his head like he’s only now realised the impossibility of the situation, “You and me, sittin’ here like this?” He grins ruefully and shrugs, “I gotta say, I uh, kinda never expected to run into you again.” 

“…Likewise.”

“So…I guess, uh…how’ve you been?” Kagami starts over, like he’s kind of at a loss as to what to say. Aomine can relate, because where do you even begin when it’s been as long as it’s been. He gives Aomine a quick once-over before centring his gaze firmly on his face. “You look…different.” There’s a hitch to his tone, and Aomine isn’t sure whether or not he means that as a good thing.

“…You don’t,” he says.

“Oh?” Kagami snorts, his mouth curling into a lazy smirk. “So how come you didn’t recognise me, then?” He’s teasing him; Aomine can tell, and it sounds and feels so familiar that he realises it would be only too easy to just fall back into their old rhythm. There’s a taunt on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down, because that’s not _them_ anymore –hasn’t been for a long time, and it doesn’t sit right in his gut that Kagami thinks he can act like nothing’s changed.

“…Maybe coz I haven’t seen you in years,” he replies, flatter than Kagami was expecting, if the way he deflates a little is anything to go by. Aomine’s blue eyes flick up to look him in the eye, just briefly –accusing, even, for a moment –before the light flickers out behind them and they turn dull once more. “…What’s that about?”  

“Ah…” Kagami mutters, shoulders sinking as he catches the edge to his tone. “…Aomine…look, I…”

“What happened?” he interrupts, and although he’s looking at Kagami still, his eyes are hooded and vacant, like he’s barely seeing him, “…You stopped playing basketball.” 

Kagami’s expression falls; he already seems to know where this is going.

“Aomine, it was a long time ago.” His voice is soft; sad maybe, and holds a hint of regret.

“What happened?” he repeats, because he knows how long ago it was. He wonders if Kagami knows how long it felt. “We were…” Kagami looks away, and Aomine finds that suits him well enough, because he can’t look at him any longer, either. When he tries again, his voice comes across empty, because he’s long since over letting the hurt come through. “…We were both meant to come to the NBA, remember?”

Kagami sits his beer on the bench, fingers wrapped around it so tight his knuckles turn white.

“…We were.”

“I got drafted in college,” Aomine tells him, and he sounds distant, like he’s hearing himself from far off.

“I know.”

“I went to _college_ so I could play,” he clarifies, grimacing a little, because everyone had thought the idea of him surviving college with his grades damn near _laughable_.

“I know,” Kagami repeats, quieter this time; more subdued, like he really does. “I know. Me too.”

“…And I thought I’d see you on the court,” Aomine mumbles, “…In the NBA.” 

His gaze travels back to Kagami’s face once more, and stays there. And the numbness he’s felt all through these years suddenly cracks, and hurt seeps out across his features like a festering wound; raw and ugly. It’s a miracle his voice doesn’t crack too.

“But you never showed up.”

Kagami cards a hand back through his hair, and there’s something akin to guilt in his expression.

“Aomine…I…”

“I waited,” Aomine interrupts blankly, toying with his food. “…Thought maybe you’d just taken a season off or something. But then you weren’t there the next year…or the one after that…”

He remembers those years, remembers feeling that greyness starting to take hold again when they all started looking at him like they did. Like he was unstoppable –like he was some kind of monster. He remembers how one day he looked up at the scoreboard and felt nothing.

 _You said you’d take me on anytime_ , he’d thought, when he’d still held hope; when he’d still believed that with all his heart. _You said it wasn’t over_.

They sit in silence for a long moment; Aomine hunched over his beer and staring down into the bottle and feeling sick with what he’s just revealed. He’s never even told Satsuki how much it had hurt; changed the subject when she asked. Disappointment couldn’t even begin to describe what he’d felt, season after season –victory after victory; and the one person who’d promised to always stand in his path, nowhere to be found.

“ –I wrecked my knee second year at college,” Kagami abruptly blurts out. Silence hangs between them for a long moment until Aomine risks a glance up and finds Kagami’s face scrunched up in a bitter grimace. “…Bad. No one wanted to draft the guy with a busted leg,” he adds dryly, like that explains everything.

It’s not good enough.

“So you _quit_?” Aomine deadpans, and it sounds like an accusation because it is one.

“I had to,” Kagami assures him, defensive, but Aomine scoffs.

“That doesn’t sound like the Kagami I knew at all,” he snorts condescendingly, and it’s the truth, because the Kagami he knew wouldn’t have let a thing so small as a busted knee stop him from playing the game he loved. The Kagami he knew also would’ve taken the bait, but this new one –this one who let basketball go –doesn’t. Instead, he just sighs, exasperated.

“I couldn’t keep playing, Aomine!” he explains earnestly, scrubbing his hand through his hair a little too aggressively, “And believe me, it _killed_ me. But what was I supposed to do? I could hardly walk.”

“You should’ve tried,” Aomine mutters bitterly.

“Tch, you don’t think I did?” Kagami snorts, and Aomine immediately feels guilty for the accusation when he looks up and sees dull pain in those bright red eyes, “I got surgery, and did the rehab, but…but by the time my knee was better, I…” He trailed off, shrugging like it was no big deal, but Aomine wasn’t stupid enough to believe that. “…I tried, but…my time had run out.” 

Aomine’s heart sinks down into his stomach and the hostility in his shoulders loosens as Kagami wraps his lips around his drink to try and mask the downturn of his lips. And he thinks that maybe, he’s not the only one who’s been hiding wounds.

“But hey,” he adds, and his tone is falsely light but the words seem genuine enough, “…I’m glad basketball worked out for one of us.”

“Yeah…” Aomine muttered, staring down into his almost empty bowl, “…Yeah, me too.”

_But it was meant to be the both of us._

He wonders if Kagami ever thought that, too.

“Look…” Kagami tries again, obviously trying to dispel the heavy atmosphere that had started to set in, “I didn’t wanna ask, and it’s not really any of my business, but what are you doing out this side of town?”

Aomine resists the temptation to agree that it’s none of his business, because for some reason, seeing Kagami here, even after all this time and all the years of waiting that turned to years of resentment…knowing that he didn’t mean for all of that that to happen; it makes it hurt just that little bit less.

“Just…for something different,” he replies with a shrug, and it’s about the most honest answer he’s prepared to offer. Kagami chuckles at that; shakes his head helplessly, like he’s never gonna understand Aomine.

“ –And you were just moping in the storm because…”

“…No reason in particular.”

“Right,” Kagami deadpans, and rolls his eyes. And he seems content to leave the talking at that –they never were much good at that part, after all –but as Aomine gazes around the kitchen, something, in pride of place upon a wall overflowing with framed certificates, catches his eye. He’d thought it was just a pin-board, of sorts, but now that he’s focusing on anything that isn’t Kagami’s face, he can see it’s laden with photographs. Some are obviously new –he can pick out the faces of some of the chefs currently laughing amongst themselves in the background –but a few of them are older.

One in particular stands out, if only because he knows that Satsuki has the same one.

It’s all of them, younger and fresher and with the world before them; all of the Generation of Miracles. All _seven_ of them, like there were meant to be. Satsuki had the camera that day; tried with all her might to get them all to smile, or at least look at the camera. His younger self obviously hadn’t listened, because he’s not peering out of the photograph at him; too busy barging into the space of the scowling redhead beside him.

His expression softens infinitesimally; a shred of warmth creeping back into the depths of his eyes.

 “For what it’s worth…” he begins, wondering if too much silence has passed for him to say what he thinks he should. He says it anyway, when Kagami looks at him quizzically. “…It…looks like things still worked out pretty well for you.” He gestures vaguely at their surroundings to illustrate his point, and it’s enough to bring a fond smile back to Kagami’s face.

It feels warm.

“I uh…yeah, I guess so,” he chuckles modestly, but not without pride. “It’s not basketball or anything, but it’s the next best thing, I reckon.” He finishes off his beer with a satisfied sigh, and grins fondly as he tracks Aomine’s gaze, “…And it’s all mine.”

As if on cue, a volley of projectile vegetables hurls themselves at Kagami’s oblivious back. Aomine barely has time to splutter out a disbelieving, “You run this place?” before they hit their mark and Kagami jolts in his seat, spinning around to glare accusingly at his co-workers.

“Oi! What’s the big idea??”

“Maybe Tai owns the place, but he’d be _lost_ without us!” one of the chefs crows rather smugly, jabbing his spatula at his boss as a reminder.

“Yeah, and he better remember it!” another adds with a grin, waving a ladle of pasta sauce in a vaguely threateningly manner. Clueless as to what seems to be going on, Aomine just stares at the scene, and then at the array of stains blossoming up on the white of Kagami’s shirt. But apparently this was nothing out of the ordinary, because a moment later Kagami throws his hands up in defeat.

“It’s _ours_ , it’s all _ours_!” he corrects grudgingly, glaring heatedly at his co-workers and shooing them back to work. “Ingrates,” he mutters under his breath as he turns back to face Aomine, but there’s not a shred of anger there. If anything, he looks like he’s grinning.

Until he gets pelted again.

“ _OW!_ ”

“We heard that.”

“Okay, I know that was a potato! I thought we said no potatoes!”

“Awwww,” the kitchen simpers in mock sympathy, and he stubbornly keeps his back to them; arms folded and jaw set. Aomine feels a smirk bloom across his face and is helpless to hide it.

“This…happen a lot?” he inquires smugly.

“Only when Taiga’s gettin’ a big head!” comes the teasing holler in reply.

“So, yeah, a _lot_!” another chips in, and Aomine snorts, despite himself.

“These guys have the right idea,” he snickers, because it’s only natural to side against him, and true to form, Kagami glares at him. Pleased with the reaction, Aomine’s smirk widens; the corners of his lips suddenly feeling light. It feels…it feels _good_ , pushing against him, and feeling him push right on back. It feels like old times –like slipping into an old, well-worn skin –and Aomine doesn’t hate it.

“I don’t hear a lot of work being done!” Kagami grits out scathingly over his shoulder, still looking enormously unimpressed.

“You’re the one gettin’ all cosy in the cheap seats, boss.”

The chefs all snicker as Kagami drags a hand down his face like he’s dramatically re-evaluating his life decisions.

“They’re great guys,” he mutters under his breath, “But the back-talk, I _swear to god_ …” He chuckles, despite himself, and stretches with a groan –the action pulling his shirt tight across his chest. “Anyways…” he adds gruffly, rumpling his hair, “…They’ve got a point. I should probably get back to it –” Aomine didn’t mean for his expression to fall, but apparently it did because he hurriedly adds, “Uh, but you can still hang out back here…if you want?”

“Aren’t you gonna ask him if he wants some _dessert_??” one of the chefs hoots impishly, and Aomine vaguely recognises him as the one who’d brought him a beer sometime before. Kagami chucks a bottle cap at him.

“Don’t you have dishes to do, or something?” he huffs exasperatedly as he collects Aomine’s empty plate. “Don’t listen to them –”

“I dunno…” Aomine hums distantly, head propped up by an elbow. He needn’t have bothered. It hadn’t felt this light in a long time. “…I think I could go for some dessert.”

Kagami swats him with a tea towel to a chorus of laughter from the rest of the kitchen. And it might have just been Aomine's imagination, but suddenly, everything felt just a little less grey.

 

* * *

 

For all his protesting, Kagami still brings him dessert.

 

* * *

Around him, the air turns sleepy. Dockets begin to pour into the kitchen less and less frequently, until pretty soon there are none left hanging in the window. The clamour and energy of a working kitchen dims, and slowly turns soft. And yet, the earlier liveliness lingers like there is no place it’d rather be. The kitchen staff must be tired –there’s a sluggishness to their movements that Aomine recognises well, and yet their eyes still seem so bright. 

None quite so bright as Kagami’s, he notes distantly.

One of the chefs starts singing. He’s tone deaf, and the pop song he’s chosen is catchy but awful, and makes the entire kitchen groan. They don’t seem to truly mind though, because they let him warble on as he cleans, and laugh when his voice cracks.

Another voice joins his; louder, but just as flat, and in a flash the kitchen erupts into a singalong, leaving a bewildered Aomine staring over at Kagami for an explanation. But Kagami grins as he joins in, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

 

* * *

 

It could have been thirty minutes, or hours, that he sits there. Their impromptu singalong becomes a whole playlist –turns to laughter; turns to the idle, familiar chatter of old friends.  It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before; the kind of stuff that gets passed around him in locker rooms like he’s a world away from the rest of them even off the court.

It’s cold, beyond the clouds. And so far, that even if he could call out to them, there’s no one close enough to hear him screaming.

_Aomine._

“…Oi, Aomine,” Kagami gristles with the impatience of a person who is fast getting tired of being ignored, and Aomine realises he must’ve zoned out. The realisation comes just a moment too late as a tea towel bats him across the face to drive home the sentiment. “Did you hear me? We’re finished for the day.”

Partly because he didn’t hear, and partly because even after all these years, ruffling Kagami’s feathers feels like the most natural thing in the world, Aomine responds with an eloquent, “…Huh?”

It’s so perfectly and innocently executed that a few of the staff still loitering behind their boss have the gall to chuckle. A particularly aggressive vein throbs in Kagami’s forehead, and it makes Aomine want to reach over and flick him. But he knows that that would be crossing a line, so he refrains –just sits there, coolly and undeniably belligerently waiting for Kagami to repeat himself.

“ –Oh, c’mon; don’t have kittens, Taiga,” one of the waiters hollers through the window at the pass, coming to Kagami’s rescue. “Just go home, will you?” He jabs a finger accusingly at the chef closest to him, “ _You_ were meant to make sure he went home!” 

“I’ve been trying to send him home for an hour!” the guy defends himself, holding up his hands and looking to his co-worker for aid, “He wouldn’t leave!”

“You know how he gets,” his co-worker agrees with a heavy roll of his eyes.

“I am _right here_ ,” Kagami grimaces, glaring over at them as though this is an age-old argument.

“And _we_ can handle closing,” the waiter insists, equally dryly, and shoos him in earnest. Kagami tries to plead with the rest of his remaining staff –Aomine suddenly notices that the kitchen isn’t as nearly as full as it had been before –but from the way they’re all waving rather pleasantly at them, he’s getting no help there.

Resigned to his fate, he turns back to Aomine and scrubs a hand back through his hair distractedly.

“…Looks like I’ll be heading home soon,” he begins again, and Aomine can hazard well enough where this is heading that he’s already rising from his stool before he can be asked to leave. And maybe it’s just the food settling in his belly, but suddenly his chest feels heavy. It doesn’t help that when he looks over at Kagami he’s wearing a small frown, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“You sure there isn’t anyone you want me to call, or something?” he offers again, and his brows knit together a little tighter. Aomine thinks briefly of Satsuki, and inbox of missed messages, and of a grey, empty apartment so far from here.

“Nah,” he says, eyes hooded, and he hates that he can hear how flat it sounds, “I’ll be fine.”

“Oh. Right,” Kagami mutters, drawing back as Aomine starts making a beeline for the back door, “Cool. I…See you around, then, I guess? It was uh…good to see you, Aomine.”

Aomine pauses, and swallows away a lump so that his voice won’t crack.

“You too, Kagami.”

It’s only when he’s standing in the doorway, peering out into the stormy gloom, that he realises just how late it is. It’s dark out now; well into the evening, and the rain is showing no signs of letting up. Shadows lurk in the corners of the alleyway and there’s an icy chill to the night air that creeps in through his thin clothes and licks frost into his skin; chasing away the warmth the kitchen had left on him.

Barely gone from it, and already he misses it.

Maybe that’s what makes him pause. Beyond the soft lamplight of the doorway, the night beckons, and all Aomine sees when he looks out into it is a sea of grey; ready to wash him away again. And it hurts, because he thinks he can remember what it was like to see red.

And then, from somewhere beyond the clouds, he thinks he hears a voice, and that maybe it’s calling out to him.

_“…Aomine, wait.”_

The darkness of the alley awaits, but on the steps; only two paces away from being strangers once again, Aomine stops, and turns.

“Look, it’s late,” Kagami explains; hurried, like he’s trying to get the words out before he can think better of it. He tucks a hand around the back of his neck almost self-consciously, and shrugs to feign nonchalance. “…My place isn’t far from here…And I uh…I’ve got a couch, if you…y’know, needed a place to crash tonight?”

Aomine stares at him, a beat too long, because Kagami seems to think he hasn’t heard and starts to repeat himself; the too-casual slump of his shoulders tensing with reflexive irritation.

“I said –”

“ –Wouldn’t that be weird?” he interrupts flatly, because despite what Kagami might think, he heard perfectly well the first time. He just doesn’t _understand_ , because, well… “…You don’t even know me.”  

There’s something nostalgic, and almost _fond_ in the theatrically long-suffering way Kagami rolls his eyes.

“…Didn’t stop you from inviting yourself over when we were in high school, did it?” he snorts, and there’s a glimmer of a smile playing on his lips that makes some of the glass in Aomine’s eyes crack, because they both remember their teenage selves bickering on the threshold of Kagami’s apartment –one with a ball in hand and the other keeping up the pretence that he wasn’t going to let him in.

(He always did).

It feels good; familiar, and warm and in the way that only familiarity is. And even though he knows that he should go back –that Satsuki will worry –something about tonight feels _different_. He can’t quite explain it –not quite yet –but it’s a feeling that he can’t help but want to selfishly hold for a little while longer.

He doesn’t give Kagami the chance to ask again.

 

* * *

 

It’s not a long drive, and Aomine spends it watching Kagami –watching his profile set against the storm outside and illuminated under dappled streetlight. He looks tired, now that he’s out of the kitchen; eyelids drooping just slightly at the corners, and a yawn teasing his mouth every now and then, but his smile is content and despite the years of silence between them, he seems at ease. 

They don’t talk; but that was never really their style, so it suits them both just fine. There’s a tune coming through the white noise on the radio and Kagami beats his fingers on the wheel in time. And every so often, as they pass through streetlight, Aomine’s sure he catches a glimpse of red glancing his way.

 

* * *

 

It’s still storming when they arrive, and Aomine’s nearly soaked through again by the time they make it to the lobby. It’s empty save for the doorman at the front desk, who has only the post-boxes and his phone for company, and looks like he’s already well sick of the night shift. He cracks a joke about the weather when Kagami greets him by name, and Kagami chuckles and rolls his eyes like it’s one he’s heard a thousand times before.

It’s a long ride in the elevator, and Aomine wordlessly watches the numbers climb as they bypass floor after floor. It feels like an eternity has passed by the time the doors open for them and Kagami’s leading him down a hall that overall, doesn’t look too dissimilar to his own. It was dark out front, so Aomine hadn’t gotten a good look at the place from the outside, but by the looks of things, they’re in a pretty big apartment block. He can hear the TV blaring from behind the first door they pass, and at the next a particularly attractive young woman in nurse’s scrubs flings a shy smile Kagami’s way as she locks up on her way out. It’s natural, the way he smiles back at her, but he doesn’t seem to notice the way her eyes linger on him once they’ve passed her by. 

Some things never change, he supposes.

Kagami pulls out his keys when they reach an apartment with the numbers 510 gleaming on the door. The five is hanging crooked and the screw looks loose, like it’s fallen off recently and been haphazardly tacked back on, and it rattles a little when Kagami lets himself in, like it might break again at any moment.

“Here we are,” he announces, to no one in particular, and leaves the door hanging open by way of invitation. And when Aomine hesitates, a pair of familiarly irritated red eyes peers back at him, saying _well, are you coming, or not_?

It’s good, that Kagami can’t see the way his expression softens, just a little.

Aomine doesn’t realise it, either.

He shuffles in after him, and murmurs a polite greeting that even his years in America haven’t quite beaten out of him, and for a moment there, as the lights flicker on, it almost feels like he’s stepping back in time.

Kagami had always been neat for a high school kid, living alone. One week, in their third year, Aomine’s parents had left him home by himself and not only had he had to go crawling to Kagami for food, but there were entire rooms he’d accidentally left unrecognisable. In contrast, Kagami’s had always been clean; tidy and dusted, and weirdly minimal in its décor for someone obviously from money, and that doesn’t seem to have changed in all the time that’s passed.

But, this is a different life, and a different Kagami. There are no basketball shoes sitting in the hallway; no game console sitting at the TV. Instead of magazines, there are actual books on the bookshelves, and although there’s a sports bag hanging on the wall, there’s only space for one, not two.

It shouldn’t do, because it’s been too long since his sports bag has had company like that, but for some reason, that makes him sad.

“ _Make yourself at home_ ,” comes Kagami’s holler from somewhere deeper in the apartment, and Aomine realises that he’s just been awkwardly loitering in the hall and staring forlornly at a blank spot on the wall. He shakes his head to clear it –to bring himself back to the present –and drifts idly onwards through the apartment.

It’s smaller than his place, but spacious, somehow. It’s clean, and simple, and well-kept, and although there’s little more than the basic furniture requirements of a living room, there are signs of life dotted all around –the line of cacti on the mantelpiece; a set of photos hanging on the wall; a sweatshirt hanging off the couch. And the curtains are pulled back to reveal the dreary night sky; clearer now, with stars starting to flicker into life, like it’s worn itself out from the storm.

“Here,” Kagami’s voice, suddenly close, pulls Aomine from his thoughts, and for not the first time that night a towel hits him square in the face as he turns. It’s soft, and smells fresh, and Aomine yanks it off his face before Kagami can laugh at him. But he doesn’t –he just smiles lopsidedly and jerks his thumb deeper into the apartment. “Uh, bathroom’s just down the hall,” he explains, briefly looking him up and down, “Thought you might want to warm up, or something.”

Aomine surprises himself by shivering. Somehow, he’d forgotten about the wet clothes chilling on his skin. 

“…Yeah," he mumbles, dipping his head a little so he doesn’t quite meet Kagami’s gaze, “…Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

It feels good, to be warm again.

Even after he’d discarded his suit, the cold it had left on his skin had clung to him like grime, and only with the heat of the shower approaching searing had he been able to scrape it away from his skin. But now, finally, dripping in his towel as steam fills the bathroom, he feels warmth starting to creep back into his bones. The skeletal touch of the storm is gone now; survived now by only the bedraggled remains of his suit; heaped in the corner in a very sad looking pile, like a discarded skin.

He kind of wishes that he never has to put it back on.

As if on cue, there’s a knock at the door and when he opens it, steam billows out into the hallway and assaults his host; a flush rising high on Kagami’s cheeks as the wave of heat hits him square on.

At first, neither of them say anything. For the first time this evening, Kagami seems lost for words, and Aomine isn’t exactly faring any better on that front.

This Kagami standing right in front of him looks so much more like the Kagami he remembers. He must’ve changed while Aomine was in the shower, because he’s brushed the flour off his chin, and the chefs whites are gone and replaced by a faded pair of sweatpants and a baggy, black shirt. But it’s not quite the same as back then, because the Kagami back then couldn’t grow facial hair to save himself, and had never worn the kind of face he was wearing just now.

Ever eloquent, Aomine just stares, and Kagami’s the one to save them both from the silence.

“Here,” he explains lamely, offering him a hastily folded bundle that Aomine finds himself taking automatically, “I…I uh, thought you’d probably want something to put on. They’re nothin’ fancy, but they’re dry, at least.”

He must not want, or expect to be thanked (which has to say something about their relationship during high school), because he doesn’t hang around to hear it. And it’s only when Aomine sidles back into the bathroom that he realises that what Kagami’s handed him is a change of clothes.

Like he’d said, they were nothing fancy –just some boxers, a pair of cheap sweats that matched the ones he’d been wearing, but noticeably less faded, and a well-worn black shirt that Aomine’s pretty sure he had one just like back in high school. But he thinks he likes that about them –that they’re nothing special. Designer clothing and flashy suits had their charms, but even after all this time –even with all the money that came his way, and the lifestyle that came with it –these are the clothes he’s always felt the most at home in. 

The pants fit well, but the shirt is a little snug around his chest and shoulders, like it had been bought a long time ago, and for someone smaller; that Kagami hadn’t had the heart to throw out. Aomine doesn’t mind so much though, because when he clears a path on the fogged up mirror, there’s a healthy redness to his cheeks, and he looks a little more like the himself he remembers. 

 

* * *

 

It should be weird, Aomine thinks.

Standing alone in the living room of a man who he hasn’t known in the last however many years, it should feel weird. He doesn’t know this Kagami, after all, he realises, as he scans the nearby bookcase and glances over its contents. The Kagami he knew had probably read a total of two actual novels in his entire high school career. Things –even if only small –have changed. Time has passed, and if a freak storm hadn’t washed him up on Kagami’s doorstep but a few hours ago, they might never have crossed paths again…

… _So why doesn’t it feel strange?_

He’s staring out the window when Kagami finds him. It’s a little embarrassing, really, because his nose is almost pressed up against the glass and his breath is leaving fog wherever it touches –but for some reason the nightline set against the sky draws his gaze. It's the same city, but it seems different from the one he usually watches from his tower. The sky’s clearer. And maybe he’s not quite so high, but they seem a lot closer than he remembers.

He can see the stars now. 

And when he feels eyes on him, he glances across the couch to find Kagami watching him from the kitchen doorway; a steaming mug in each hand. 

“Ah, good, they fit,” Kagami’s voice remarks out of nowhere, and Aomine glances across the couch to see him emerging from the kitchen with a steaming mug in each hand. “Wasn’t sure if we were still the same size…” he adds conversationally, and smiles, as he offers him a drink. Aomine doesn’t usually drink coffee at this hour because the only thing worse than falling asleep in an empty apartment is staying up through the night in one; where there’s nothing but shadows and his own thoughts to keep him company.

(They don’t always make for good company. When they’re even there at all.)

But this isn’t his apartment.

A cool breath of air tickles his face, and he realises that while he’s been warming his hands on his mug, Kagami’s gone to the sliding door. It’s fresh, not cold, and the chill of the storm has faded away, leaving only the smell of rain as a reminder, and when Aomine joins Kagami on the balcony, he finds that his newfound warmth lingers. He falls into place beside him with ease, and although Kagami doesn’t look over at him, he knows he’s there. And from the way he laughs when Aomine takes a sip of his drink and pulls a face when his mouth is suddenly flooded with sweet, not bitter, has half an eye trained on him.

It’s not unpleasant, just unexpected, and he tells Kagami as such as his host fails to muffle a snort behind a sleeve.

“It’s a bit late for coffee,” Kagami explains behind a grin when Aomine inspects the warm cocoa in his hand with obvious scepticism. “You don’t have to drink it,” he adds, rolling his eyes. Partly to spite him, and partly because Aomine can’t remember the last time someone made him hot cocoa (Satsuki’s efforts don’t, and will never count because what she makes can’t even be considered fit for human consumption), Aomine looks him dead in the eye and takes a deep swig.

He burns his tongue for his efforts, and Kagami laughs.

“God, I always wondered what happened to you,” he laughs, and it’s loud and hearty, and sounds like a basketball beating upon worn concrete in the summertime. “But you’re still just the same old Aomine.”

Aomine likes that he doesn’t say it like it’s a bad thing.

Some of the apprehension he’d felt at Kagami Taiga making such a sudden reappearance into his life starts to fall away, and he relaxes into the balcony railing with a sigh. 

“Nice place you got here,” he remarks –making conversation despite his scalded tongue.

“Thanks,” Kagami replies, and he must’ve sounded genuine, because the smile that follows is warm, and fond. “It’s probably not what you’re used to, but it does me just fine. Close to work…a good price…and it’s pretty nice to be able to come out here for some fresh air after being in the kitchen all day, y’know?” he says, the smile rising up into his eyes as he gazes off into the distance. Distantly, Aomine wonders what exactly he sees, because the faraway look he’s wearing makes him look kinda peaceful.

“Yeah...” he replies, softly, to conceal the lie, because he can’t really say that he knows what that feels like. “…And it’s just you here?” He doesn’t really know why he asks that; there’s nothing about his apartment to suggest otherwise.

“Yep, just me,” Kagami replies easily, blowing on his cocoa to cool it, and licking chocolate froth off his upper lip when he takes a deep gulp. “I’ve had roommates before, but when I got the restaurant I decided to just get a place of my own, too. Just seemed easiest, I guess.” He shrugs, like what he’s achieved is no big deal, but Aomine wouldn’t blame him if he outright bragged.

And he sees the follow-up question coming from a mile off.

“What about you?”

He doesn’t let it ruin his mood. He doesn’t want to think about his lonely apartment in the city and all the shadows it holds.

“It’s all right,” he replies flatly, shrugging as he trails off, “Not there a lot, so….” It’s not a lie. Away games have him trekking across the country every other week, after all. “…And Satsuki...you remember Satsuki, right?”

“Hmm? ‘Course I remember her,” Kagami scoffs, as though the notion were ridiculous, “She was pretty into Kuroko, right?” (Aomine nods, rolling his eyes theatrically, because if that wasn’t the understatement of the century) “ –She used to take care of you like a mom, didn’t she?” He’s teasing him.

“…Nagged me like one, more like,” Aomine snorts, and thinks briefly of all the missed calls and unread messages waiting for him on his phone, and feels a flash of guilt. “…Still does…”

They’re still very much in touch, Aomine tells him, when Kagami asks; a little more solemnly, like the low lilt to his voice is telling, and he gets the message –they have to be, seeing as she’s his manager and all, and they both laugh when he informs him grimly that she still can’t cook.

“You’ll have to bring her down to the restaurant some time,” Kagami remarks offhandedly, “It’d be kinda cool to see her. Maybe I could give her some lessons.”

Aomine fixes him with the sternest stare he can muster with Kagami smirking at him the way he is. “You know Satsuki should never be allowed in a restaurant kitchen,” he deadpans, and Kagami’s smirk breaks into a snicker because he knows it just as well as he does. After three years of training camp kitchen nightmares, even Kagami, who had trained his cooking disaster of his coach to make a simple meal, had had to accept that she was a lost cause.

“I know, I know,” Kagami chuckles, swilling the last of his drink around the bottom of his mug, “It’d still be nice to see her, though.” He sounds nostalgic, and Aomine raises an eyebrow.

Satsuki would probably love to see Kagami too. She hasn’t mentioned him in years –not since Aomine stopped inquiring about college games and poring over draft classes –but that didn’t mean she didn’t think of him, sometimes.

(After all, Aomine was secretly the same, wasn’t he?)

“…I heard you had the hots for her in high school,” he remarks, out of nowhere, and Kagami almost chokes on his drink at the accusation.

“ _What ­_ –where did you hear _that_??” he splutters, and then glares when Aomine’s smirk gives away that he’s kind of just messing with him. He always fell into traps easy, and never failed to deliver a satisfying reaction.

“Tetsu told me you thought she was cute,” he explains matter-of-factly, and Kagami claps a hand to his face like he can’t believe his best friend had sold him out.

“Ugh…Kuroko…” he grumbles, but it’s good-natured, and he rolls his eyes when he catches Aomine waiting for him to deny it. “…I didn’t exactly…I mean, well, she _was_ cute –if you’re into that.”

Honestly, Aomine’s accusation had just been to ruffle Kagami’s feathers –to test old waters and see if they still rippled the same way when he disturbed them –so he hadn’t actually expected an answer; especially one in the affirmative. (It’s probably the reason he never joked about it when they were young. Because back then there was a chance it could’ve been true.)

Somehow, the idea that Kagami had harboured those kinds of thoughts about Satsuki had never sat exactly right with him, but he’d never let himself think too deeply on whether that was because it was Satsuki, or because it was Kagami.

 

* * *

 

They stay out on the porch long after their drinks are gone. For the most part it’s aimless chatter –of high school, and the good old days, and old friends, because Aomine doesn’t want to talk about the now, or how he got here, because he doesn’t want to think about the nights spent alone and the way the silence of his penthouse eats at him. So he lets Kagami talk –unlike him, he’s kept in loose contact with a bunch of their old high school crowd –enough that he knows what the likes of Kise, and Wakamatsu (names that Aomine hasn’t heard in years –not since Satsuki stopped bringing up) are doing, and that Midorima finally asked Takao to marry him.

He stopped wanting to hear a long time ago –Satsuki had tried, (of course she had) to keep him up with such things, at least for a time –because it had made the hole in his heart ache (while it still could), hearing about the worlds of others turning when his own had stopped.

(But here, now, immersed in an air of nostalgia, and coming from the man who had first set his world on fire, it suddenly doesn’t feel quite so bad.)

And when talk of the past finally runs its course, they settle back into an easy silence; leaning on the balcony railing and both staring aimlessly out into the night. It’s much like a night Aomine thought he’d forgotten –one in the waning days of their high school careers; when their third year was winding down and the future loomed on ahead. Kagami had told him about America –told him with excitement and misty eyes, what was waiting for him ( _them_ ) out there, and with the stars as their witness, had promised him that this was only the beginning.

(He’s suddenly got that look in his eyes again. It’s as mesmerising as it had been back then.)

It’s only when Kagami turns away –looks out to the world –that Aomine realises he’s been staring. He hurriedly shifts his gaze, but Kagami’s lost enough in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice. 

“…I went to one of your games, y’know?”

The confession is hushed, and soft –almost shy –the way a person would share a secret kept too long, and when the silence that follows tells Aomine that he didn’t mishear, he finds himself staring all over again. 

He didn’t know.

He never would have guessed.

He’d spent so long looking to the court for Kagami that he had never considered the possibility that he might already be there with him; just outside, looking in.

“It was uh, last year,” Kagami continues, chuckling affectionately at the memory, “…San Antonio. The guys got me tickets for Christmas –coz we uhh, we sometimes watch the games at work sometimes,” he explains, a little sheepishly, “Y’know, in the down time? And it’s one thing to watch it on TV…but seeing you on the court again…dropping 47 points like it was nothing…You were…” He grins to himself, shaking his head helplessly, and as he talks a twinkle sparks in his eye –that same glint that used to set Aomine’s blood on fire. “… _Shit_ , you were as amazing as ever.”

 _47 points, huh,_ he muses to himself. _Just another day’s work then._

 _(But Kagami was there_.

…And he doesn’t even remember.)

San Antonio rings some bells –it’s a team he’s clashed with many times before –but specifics of the games themselves…when he thinks back…all he sees is grey.

“Yeah, well…” he sighs flatly, “The only one who can beat me is me.”

Kagami elbows him.

 _Hard_.

Aomine lets out an undignified squawk and when he gawks indignantly at Kagami for explanation, his starry eyes are gone and he looks almost _annoyed_.

“Do you _want_ me to throw you over the balcony?” he scoffs, and then rolls his eyes. “Don’t go getting a big head again,” he warns, quirking one of his dumb eyebrows, and nudging him with an elbow –more playfully this time, “…Remember what happened last time?” 

He grins, and Aomine remembers, and the corners of his lips start to rise at the edges to mirror him.

_You._

Kagami’s thinking the same thing.

 _Me_.

Kagami looks away first, but his smile lingers.

“Come on…” he grins, jerking a thumb back indoors, “We should head in –it’s gettin’ kinda late. I’ll set up the couch for you.”

His shoulder brushes against Aomine’s as he passes him by. It’s warm to the touch, but when his red gaze trails down his face and glimmers in the soft light, Aomine shivers.

 

* * *

 

Kagami’s right –it’s late. And yet, even once the lights are dimmed, and Kagami’s having trouble stringing together a sentence without yawning, he still lingers; happy to banter back and forth with him until he finally calls it a night.

(Aomine’s a little rusty, but he’s getting the hang of it again.)

 

* * *

 

Outside, the moon has passed its peak, and the city lights; turned down low, flicker in slumber. Aomine watches them for a while after Kagami bids him goodnight; stretches out on the couch as best he can and watches them glimmer as the night’s shadows creep inside. They don’t touch him here though; chased away by the warmth that Kagami’s presence has left. Even though he’s not there anymore his warmth has lingered. 

And with the city as its backdrop, his phone; forgotten, but dry, and living once more, waits on the coffee table. 

It’s late, but Satsuki still picks up on the first ring.

Her voice is definitely too shrill for the hour, but he’s used to it by now. 

“ _Dai-chan, are you all right?”_ She trills, and he winces. “ _Where are you?? Where have you been? I’ve been so worr –”_

“ –I’m fine, Satsuki,” he interrupts, low, and husky; little more than a whisper. She hears him, all the same, but doesn’t seem convinced.

“ _That_ does not _tell me where you are_!”

She’s trying to sound cross, he can tell, but she only gets this shrill when she’s been beside herself with worry. He lets her talk a little –she’s left enough messages so far that she’s probably almost completely worn herself out. 

“ _Dai-chan, you’ve been gone for hours!”_ she hisses, and almost manages to disguise the way her words choke just so, “ _Did you get my messages? Why didn’t you call me?”_

“I’m calling you now, aren’t I?”

(He knows it’s not good enough, but it’s all he can offer, really. She’ll forgive him. She always does.)

“ _I…_ ” she mumbles, the anger fading from her voice because she knows those things just as well as he does. “… _I just don’t like it when you run off like that.”_

She wants to ask him why he does; what he’s looking for, or running from –but they both know he doesn’t have an answer for her. At least, not one he’s willing to share. So, to spare them both, she doesn’t ask.

“ _You’re really okay_?” she asks instead, softer this time, “ _Where are you?_ _Do you need me to come pick you up_?”

“…Nah,” he assures her, “It’s fine. I…I’m…I’m with a friend.” 

“ _A friend_ ,” she repeats, sounding (understandably) sceptical, “ _Dai-chan….”_

“…Nothing like that, dammit! I…” He pauses a moment, toying with the idea of lying. It would be easier that way --to let her believe that he was off fraternising with some stranger, but something stops the words before they leave his lips, and he finds himself lowering his voice. “…Hey Satsuki? Do you…remember Kagami? Taiga. From high school?”

“... _Kagamin_?” she parrots quizzically, “… _I…of course? How could I forget?_ ” 

“Well, I…wait, _Kagamin_? Seriously?”

“ _Dai-chan_!”

“Oh. I uhh…I bumped into him today. He’s…. ….” He pauses, sinking back into the pillow that Kagami’s brought out for him. “…He’s kinda helping me out.”

There's silence down the line for a long while. 

He can't tell if she believes him. But either way, it's obvious his answer has left her with questions, and that she wants terribly to ask them. But in the end, in a decision that Aomine is grateful for, she decides against it. 

"Dai-chan…" she says instead --quieter, and a little uncertain, " _Are you sure you’re all right? You sound weird.”_

“What?? Course, Satsuki, I’m fine.” He thinks of Kagami, and the way he smiled at him on the porch, and whispers, almost to himself, “I’m fine.” And for the first time in a long time it doesn’t feel like quite so much of a lie. He wonders if she believes him.

“ _Okay then_ ,” she decides after a moment, still unsure, but resigned, “ _I won’t tell on you."_  And then, because she's decided to humour, or even believe him, " _Say hi to him for me, won’t you_?”

(He thinks she believes him.)  

She must, because before she hangs up, she adds, so soft --almost like she didn’t mean for Aomine to hear, _“…He always was good for you…_ ”

Tonight, the shadows creeping up the walls don’t bother him, and he falls asleep thinking how relieved he is that Kagami still kind of sees him as the same old Aomine he knew in high school. It feels good, to be able to talk to someone who doesn’t see him as _the Aomine Daiki_ ; someone who never did.

Kagami never saw Aomine as a monster. He saw him as an equal. And Aomine had always liked that.

It feels good to feel like that again. 

 

* * *

 

There are worse ways to wake up, Aomine supposes.

Sure, he fell off the couch, and _sure_ , Kagami was there to laugh at him, but for once he was _warm,_ and the room smells of coffee, and if he’s honest (because there are some things he’s long since over lying to himself about) –he’s always been a little partial to a shirtless man. 

And it just so happens that there’s one of those standing across the room.

_Whoa._

(Even back in high school, when Aomine still dreamed, and his thoughts had been filled with delicate features, soft curves and light, breathless whispers, it had still never escaped his notice that Kagami was kinda stacked. It doesn’t seem like Kagami’s changed all that much, so it really shouldn’t have come as any kind of surprise that that hasn’t either.)

(If anything, the years that have passed have done him nothing but favours.) 

Frankly, it’s a lot to take in.

(Aomine’s sure that sweatpants have never looked so good.)

“Ugh,” is all Aomine manages to groan into the floor, drowsy, and buries his face into the pillow that’s blessedly fallen with him. It’s surprisingly comfy, hanging off the couch like this, and weirdly enough he feels like he could just nod back off right here. Sleep –the soft, dozing kind –lingers behind his eyes in a way it hasn’t in a long time, and calls to him with warm, gentle whispers.

Unfortunately, a nudge in the ribs with what feels suspiciously like a toe, keeps him from drifting off again, and this time his complaint comes out as little more than a throaty whine.

Kagami laughs at him, again.   

“Mornin’ to you too,” he chuckles, and sets a steaming mug –one that brings the refreshing smell of coffee with it –down on the coffee table, just within reach. And, despite what the media and the world of basketball might think, he’s only human, and cracks an eyelid when he hears footsteps –just enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of bare skin as Kagami comes close.

It’s tan, and smooth, and dear god is he ripped.

If it wasn’t Kagami, Aomine would probably seriously consider licking him. Or worse.

But this _is_ Kagami; his idiot high school rival.

(That’s all they were ever meant to be, apparently. High school had ended, after all, and so had they.)

Aomine lets his eyes close again. Kagami mistakes the way he sags into the ground as lethargy (and maybe, in a sense, it kind of is), and dimly, Aomine recognises the way he snickers as the way he used to when they were young, and he got into a sulk over not getting his way, or lost at a video game.

It makes him want to pout.

(That had always made Kagami laugh louder.)

(Maybe that’s why he always did it.)

“There’s more coffee in the kitchen if you need it,” Kagami informs him with a chuckle and a playful swat at his leg; teasing, when Aomine lets out a low grumble, “…And no offense, but it really looks like you could use it.”

Aomine whacks his calf as he passes, and cracks an eye enough to catch Kagami grinning at him.

“I’m just gonna grab a shower, then I’ll make us something to eat, okay?” he offers, and Aomine’s ears automatically prick up in interest.

“…You cookin’?”

“Sure,” Kagami shrugs casually, “You’re staying for breakfast, right?” 

Aomine’s (traitorous) stomach growls.

“Guess that’s a yes then,” Kagami snickers, and Aomine can't find it in him to contradict him. “Be right back.”

Aomine turns his head just enough to watch him go.

_Yeah, sweatpants have never looked so good._

* * *

Aomine hears the shower running a few minutes later, and by then, the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach has started to grow too insistent to ignore. He’d probably have been perfectly content with staying as he was –maybe going to back to sleep –but now Kagami’s gone and planted the idea of breakfast in his head and now he’s having difficulty thinking of anything other than pancakes loaded with bacon. 

And the steaming mug on the table smells pretty damn good.

Turns out, Kagami makes a good cup of coffee. Aomine’s midway through his second cup, when there’s a knock at the door. He pauses, shirt halfway over his head, and listens out again; unsure of if he’d heard correctly. But the knock just comes again; more insistent this time.

“Kagami!” he hollers deeper into the apartment, yanking his shirt off and slinging it over the back of the couch as he heads to top up his mug again. There’s no response except for the steady hiss of the shower, so he lets out an aggrieved groan and tries again, “ _Kagami_.”

“ _What_?”

“There’s someone at the door,” Aomine informs him.

He’s pretty sure he can _hear_ Kagami rolling his eyes at him.

“ _So answer it_?” he shouts back, with all the low-grade and fully justified irritation of someone whose shower has been rudely –and needlessly –interrupted, “ _Obviously_!”

It costs him almost no effort to do exactly that, and really, after all the hospitality Kagami’s shown him considering they haven’t spoken in years, Aomine really has no business in complaining about doing something so simple in return, but Satsuki’s always claimed he’s a drama queen, and in all honesty he has no interest in dealing with strangers at this hour of the morning. Especially if they happen to recognise him. More so if they’re fans. So it’s with reluctance so tangible Kagami can probably sense it from the shower, he trudges over to the front door.

He wasn’t prepared to open it, and come face to face with Satsuki.

For a second, he thinks she’s going to yell at him.

It wouldn’t be the first time, and he’d put money on it not being the last time, but the tirade of scolding that he’s anticipating doesn’t come. In fact, nothing comes; she just stands there in the doorway with wide eyes, and stares at him; looking for all the world like she doesn’t know whether to be furious, or relieved that he’s safe and sound. He meets her gaze for a time; waiting for her to speak, but unfortunately for them both, her conflicted feelings manifest as tears in the corners of her eyes before she can, and he has to look away. 

He’s always hated seeing her cry; especially when he knows it’s because of him.

(She knows.)

She’s generous enough to dab at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve before they well up, and for that he’s grateful. She looks upset enough as it is, and a little drawn; like she hasn’t slept very well. It’s unwise to say as much –he knows that by now, at least –but by the way she puffs herself up the way she does when she’s cross, when he bluntly asks what she’s doing there, he’s still gone and said the wrong thing.

“ _What am I doing here?”_ she repeats incredulously, eyes sharpening as she aims a meaningful jab at his bare chest with a finger. He flinches. It hurts, and she probably knows it. “Looking for you of course, Dai-chan, you _idiot_!”

“Ow,” he mutters weakly, but doesn’t bother batting her hand away. It just antagonises her and makes her do it again.

She does it again anyway; this time with the heel of her palm; but he knows it’s more out of frustration than anything.

“ _Idiot_ ,” she repeats crossly, “Running off like that! Do you have any idea how _worried_ I was??” He does. The dozens of unread messages and voicemails he hadn’t listened to had given him a fair idea.

Still, she doesn’t yell.

She _lectures_ , which is a hundred times worse, and is about as effective as it had been during their high school days –which isn’t very. But it’s her way of telling him she’s not mad. Scared, maybe; worried, definitely; furious, to begin with, but no longer. So he lets her rant, because she’s sure to calm down once she’s gotten it out of her system –and by the time she’s midway through her third reiteration of the fact that he could have been dead, for all she knew, they’ve got company.

“Oi, Aomine, who is i… …oh.”

Aomine hadn’t heard Kagami approach and jumps a little when he feels a puff of warm air against the back of his neck.

“ –Momoi,” Kagami finishes, as he abruptly recognises the young woman who hasn’t crossed his doorstep in years. “Hey,” he adds, somewhat lamely, after a moment of silence has passed –the kind of silence that stems from coming face to face with the past, “…It’s been a while.”

“Kagamin,” she breathes, hardly able to believe her eyes. Obviously she’d only half-believed Aomine when they’d spoken the night before. “…I mean, sorry…Kagami-san, that was rude of me.”

“…Kagami’s just fine,” he snorts; absent-mindedly towelling his hair dry, and waving away her small, apologetic bow and her sudden formalness with a wrinkle of his nose. The corners of Satsuki’s eyes crease and a measure of fondness creeps up into them as she confirms, “Okay, Kagami it is, then. It’s good to see you again after all this time.”

“You too,” Kagami replies pleasantly, and then jerks a thumb in Aomine’s direction, “You’re still babysitting this guy, then?” Aomine glares at him, and then turns his displeasure to Satsuki when she giggles.

“You could say that,” she replies, long-suffering but good-natured; the traitor. “I’ve got my work cut out for me.” Double traitor.

“Looks that way,” Kagami laughs, and elbows Aomine familiarly when he realises he’s sulking at being teamed up against. “So, are you inviting Momoi in or what?”

“What?” is the option Aomine goes for; mostly because he hadn’t even considered the former. Kagami rolls his eyes and opts to address Satsuki in his stead.

“I was just about to make us some breakfast,” he explains, “Did you want some?”

Satsuki hesitates. Aomine can tell immediately that while she appreciates the offer, she wants to decline; she’s fidgeting with her phone the way she does when they have somewhere to be, and ten minutes ago, but something in Aomine’s face must sway her. After a moment of consideration, she nods the affirmative, and slowly slips her phone back into her pocket.

“Great,” Kagami decides with a grin, and welcomes her inside with a gesture. “I hope you’re all right with pancakes,” he adds conversationally as he heads back the way he’s come. He drapes his towel around his neck as he goes, which treats the pair of them to an impressive set of back muscles that Aomine’s pretty sure neither of them are checking out in a purely professional capacity.

Unfortunately, Satsuki also –as always –has a shrewd eye trained on him, and he suddenly becomes heavily conscious of the fact that they’re both little more than half-clothed, because his old friend is wearing her most calculating expression. She’s obviously doing her maths; taking into account both his personal history and their joint state of undress, and by the looks of things, drawing entirely the wrong conclusion. 

“Dai-chan, you didn’t…” she gasps, landing a light smack on his hip; scandalised.

“What??” Aomine hisses back, flinching at the blow even though it hadn’t hurt. Her eyes dart insistently from him to Kagami and then back again until he gets her meaning. He elbows her right on back, as if she’s made an outrageous accusation, and is some kind of idiot for even suggesting such a thing.

Which she is.

Obviously.

“Satsuki, shut up, _no_ , jeez!”

 

* * *

 

“Dai-chan, are you sure you’re going to eat all of that?” Satsuki sounds a little on the awestruck side; her eyes like saucers as she stares past her own polite portion of bacon and pancakes to the monster which is Aomine’s own. 

“Yeah?” he mutters, through a mouthful of pancakes dripping in syrup. He doesn’t see what the big deal is –maybe it’s a little more than he’d usually eat, but it’s nothing compared to Kagami’s plate, which is stacked almost twice as high as his.

“Are you sure you _should_ be eating all of that?” she tries again. He knows what she’s getting at –professional athletes have to eat right, after all; stay in shape and take care of their bodies and all that –and opts to ignore her; belligerently drowning his pancakes in another layer of maple syrup instead. Kagami snickers, but in Aomine’s opinion, idiots with cream on their faces are in no position to be laughing at anyone.

“ –Are you sure you’ve got enough?” Kagami inquires, looking almost concerned at the perceived emptiness of Satsuki’s plate, even though she’s dealt herself approximately what a normal human could call a decent sized breakfast, “I can always make some more, if you want?”

“Oh no, this is quite enough,” Satsuki assures him, and politely ignores the smug look Aomine sends her way when she tops her pancakes off with an (un)healthy serving of cream. _Hypocrite_. She takes a moment to savour the mingling smells of bacon, sugar, and freshly cooked pancakes, before taking a rather unladylike bite and letting out a soft hum of delight.

“Mmm, Kagamin!” she exclaims, the nickname slipping out easily as she smacks her lips, “These are delicious!” Kagami looks decidedly pleased by the praise, and bites the corner of his lip to hold back a grin.

(Aomine can tell, though.)

“ –Oh, I really have missed your pancakes,” she laments dramatically, automatically reaching for the maple syrup again, and apparently unaware of it, “I just can never get mine to taste quite like yours.”

“You can’t get your pancakes to taste like _anything_ ,” Aomine reminds her flatly, and then frowns, “Wait. You had Kagami’s pancakes before?”

“Of course,” she replies brightly, “All the time, back in the day.” He’s not sure why, but he shoots an accusing glare at Kagami for confirmation.

“You always took ages to get your lazy ass out of bed,” Kagami shrugs, “I used to make us some while she was waiting for you.”

Aomine’s not exactly sure what to do with this new information. He’s not entirely sure he likes it.

Of course, that gets the nostalgia ball rolling, and the breakfast conversation takes a turn to the past as they chat about the good old days –the kinds of things that until very, very recently, Aomine had been making an almost conscious effort not to remember.

(Remembering what he’d had had always just made it more obvious that he didn’t have it anymore.)

And Satsuki had known that, and so kept her silence. And maybe it had hurt her, too; forgetting –or pretending to forget –because today, there’s a brightness to her smile that he hasn’t seen there in a long time. 

(Aomine can’t remember the last time they had a breakfast like this.)

It’s nice, to see her smile like that again. She’s trying to hide it, but isn’t very successful; she giggles when he snakes a slice of banana from Kagami’s plate; both when Kagami pretends to ignore him, and when he gets swatted away, and smiles with open fondness when Aomine inadvertently lets out an approving hum around a particularly tasty bite and gets smirked at, like Kagami’s tricked him into praising his cooking.

(Sometimes, it’s even a little on purpose. Aomine hasn’t enjoyed breakfast this much in years, and he thinks that maybe he can afford Kagami a little credit. Just a little.)

Kagami graciously doesn’t call him out when he demands more, but it’s obvious that he’s pleased by the unspoken positive critique, and Aomine has to fight the overwhelming urge to take his smug face and dunk it down into his plate.

(It’d be a waste of good pancakes. And there’s already enough stuck to Kagami’s face.)

Not that he’s staring.

Much.

It’s hard, because, much like the night before, in the kitchen, no matter where he looks his gaze always finds its way back to Kagami, like it’s drawn to him, or unconsciously seeking him out. And it might just be his imagination, but he’s sure that it goes both ways, because every so often –even when Satsuki’s commanding their attention –he thinks he sees Kagami glance his way, just briefly, before dancing away again when he realises he’s been caught.

“Are you feeling okay, Dai-chan?” he hears Satsuki ask softly, once Kagami has cleared away their plates and is safely in the kitchen where Aomine’s wandering eyes can’t find him no matter how hard they might try. That doesn’t stop him from staring blankly at the kitchen doorway, apparently. “…You kinda keep zoning out.”

“I’m fine,” he replies mechanically, but it sounds vacant even to his own ears, and when he tears his gaze away from the empty doorway to look at her, she’s wearing the most quizzical, and oddly unreadable expression. He’s known her most of his life –he knows most of her many looks and faces, and what they mean, but this one is unfamiliar, and indecipherable. Kagami reappears and saves him from Satsuki’s prying before he has time to ponder what exactly it might mean, and brings coffee with him.

Satsuki declines, after venturing a nervous glance towards the clock, but Aomine, who really couldn’t care less about what appointment they supposedly have, or have missed, and shows it, makes a point of helping himself to another cup.

(“Dai-chan, you’ll be up all night!” Satsuki scolds, as though this were his tenth cup, rather than his fourth.

He doesn’t bother telling her that he probably will be anyway.)

“The food was delicious, Kagami; thank you,” she announces, flinging Aomine a long-suffering look as he makes himself at home on the couch.

(Kagami only pretends to mind; just for good measure, and for old times’ sake.)

“Sure thing,” Kagami shrugs casually, “You kinda looked like you could use a decent breakfast.”

Aomine snorts into his coffee, and manages to disguise a snicker as a cough as Satsuki flushes a little and self-consciously runs her fingers through her hair. And Kagami –true to form, is completely oblivious.

 _What an idiot_. Still not a clue.

“Well, it was definitely a treat,” Satsuki assures him, and her expression softens as she regards her childhood friend sprawled out on the couch like he’s been frequenting it for years. “…And thank you for taking care of Dai-chan; I know he can be a big baby sometimes…”

“Hmm? Oh, it was no problem,” Kagami replies easily, flinging Aomine a look as though to make sure that Satsuki’s jibe had landed, and grinning openly when he saw that it had. It’s as lopsided as ever, and the same kind of bright and challenging that had always entranced Aomine on the court. It’s both hard to look directly at and impossible to look away. “What was I supposed to do; leave him out in the rain?” He laughs, and Aomine pretends he doesn’t see the horrified look on Satsuki’s face at the implication that he’d been out in that storm. “I’m sure anyone would have done the same.”

Aomine’s not so sure. Obviously he and Satsuki can agree on at least this much, because the next minute she’s off and rambling about how worried she was, and how glad she is that Kagami found him when he did, and how she doesn’t know how in the world she’ll ever be able to repay him.

(He doesn’t know why she’s making such a big deal. He’s wandered off before. And he always goes back.)

Kagami’s still trying to get a word in edgeways to tell her she doesn’t have to worry about that sort of stuff when her eyes light up like she’s just had a stroke of brilliance.  

“Oh! I know!” she exclaims excitedly, steamrolling over Kagami’s protests with a wide smile and glittering eyes. She looks so youthful. “Do you still like basketball??” She sounds it, too. “Because if you do; would you like to come to one of Dai-chan’s games?? I’m sure I can get you a really good seat!”

Kagami’s smile starts to slip.

“That’s…that’s really not necessary…” he assures her; suddenly seeming ill at ease. Satsuki immediately deflates; confounded by his reluctance.

“What?” she queries, almost in disbelief, and then, “Oh,” a moment later as she mulls over his response. “Do you not like basketball anymore?”

(She thinks Aomine doesn’t see the anxious look she gives him, but he does.)

“…It’s not that…” he begins, and despite his visible hesitance, she visibly brightens.

“ –Oh! What a relief!” she exclaims in delight, “So, you’ll come, then?”

Kagami’s slow to reply, and when he does, it’s not necessarily with her level of enthusiasm.

“I…I dunno,” he mumbles, sounding unsure, “It…I’ve got the restaurant to look after and everything...I don’t know if I could get away…”

Aomine knows an excuse when he hears one –he’s been feeding them to Satsuki for years, after all –and tries not to look too crestfallen.

 _Why doesn’t he want to come_?

“Are you sure?” Satsuki persists; her womanly instincts are finally kicking in and telling her that he’s not buying what she’s selling, “…There’s a home game coming up against the Celtics that –”

“Satsuki, drop it.”

Aomine's voice comes out flatter than he meant for it to, but it makes her mouth snap shut, so at least it has the desired effect.

“He’s not interested,” Aomine informs her; explaining so that Kagami won’t have to. It’s a lie, of course, but Satsuki doesn’t have to know that; doesn’t have to know what he knows. 

( _I couldn’t keep playing_! Kagami had said just the night before, in a voice too tight, and too wretched to come from someone who had fallen out of love with basketball. _My time had run out._ )

“…So just drop it already.”

She hesitates –curiosity is a habit that dies hard, if it dies at all –but drops it, all the same.

“…We should be heading off,” she says instead, and although he’s grateful for the redirection, it’s not exactly the one he would’ve liked –especially since this time, she seems serious. Her phone’s been back in her hand for a while now; dancing between her fingertips like it’s hot in her palms. The notification light is blinking insistently, which is never a good sign.

All the same, Aomine makes a show of getting comfortable, obstinately turning his mug in his hands. But when Satsuki flings Kagami a long-suffering plea for aid, he knows the jig is up. It’s a little dusty, but her helpless pink eyes still have the power to sway him, it seems, because after a moment of deliberation, Kagami drags himself out of his chair with a dramatic groan.

“Come on, Aomine, you know the drill,” he chuckles, batting Aomine’s legs down off the couch and prying his empty coffee mug from him the way he always used to when Satsuki had put her foot down that it was time to go.

“I’m going, I’m going,” he grumbles, because when Kagami took Satsuki’s side there’d never been much he could do except accept his fate, and swats Kagami’s hands away as he staggers to his feet. His joints click back into place as he stretches, and he jolts a little when Kagami’s hand claps into the small of his back.

“Sounds like you’re getting old,” he teases, face close and grin blinding.

“Speak for yourself,” Aomine jibes back, elbowing him in the gut as he gathers himself up.

“…Boys, boys,” Satsuki chides as Kagami teeters off balance. “Dai-chan,” she urges, more insistently, and the horseplay stops before it even begins.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a twist,” he grouses, waving away her complaints –which, predictably only stand to increase at the mention of her panties. Red rises into her cheeks and she slaps him none too gently as she passes him by to retrieve her coat. Aomine smirks at her as she stomps off to get her shoes, looking a whole lot less mighty than she’d like. Without them she’s lost four inches –the four inches she needs when all her associates are veritable giants –and there’s nothing particularly intimidating about pantyhose.

“ –Don’t wind her up too much,” Kagami snickers, materialising at his side all of a sudden. The next thing he knows, a set of clothes are being pressed into his chest; all clean, warm, and neatly folded. “Here’s your stuff, by the way. Your jacket’s hangin’ in the bathroom. It’s still pretty wet; it’ll probably need dry cleaning.”

Aomine doesn’t say that he doesn’t want it –any of it. Not when Kagami’s gone to the effort of ironing his shirt.

“Cool,” he says instead, and then, quieter, “…Thanks. And…keep the jacket.” That earns him a raised eyebrow, but Aomine neither explains nor retracts the statement. Meanwhile, Satsuki’s waiting at the door for him with half a pair of shoes on; phone pressed to her ear with one hand –probably related to the blinking notification light she’s been ignoring –and trying to hook her other shoe on with the other.

“ –Yes, I hear what you’re saying,” she’s saying, like she’s already tired of the conversation, “…But like I said...” she presses her hand over the mouthpiece and fixes him with a pleading look, “…Dai-chan, will you please get changed?”

Aomine’s pretty sure there’s nothing wrong with what he’s wearing, but a nudge in the ribs from Kagami stops him from saying as much.

“You heard the lady,” Kagami smirks, and has the audacity to fling a _wink_ in Satsuki’s direction as he wheels Aomine back towards the bathroom, like he’s not completely convinced Aomine’s developed the manners to not drop his pants in company. And even Satsuki –a girl who’s had to brush off more than her fair share of suitors in her time; all of them rich and handsome –looks a little caught off guard.

“Yeah, yeah – _oi, I’m going!_ ”

 

* * *

 

In the mirror, he sees himself smiling. 

But by the time he flicks the light off, it’s completely gone; buried somewhere upon the floor amongst Kagami’s clothes.

 

* * *

 

Satsuki looks sorry. 

It’s not her fault. It’s time to go. That’s all there is to it.

This isn’t his life anymore, and there’s no use in pretending that it is. It hasn’t been for a long time, and even if here, in Kagami’s apartment, it feels like nothing’s changed –like almost no time’s passed at all –it has. He moved on, a long time ago.

(Or, at least, that’s what he’d let himself believe.)

Standing at the door, he finally feels the effects of time passing. Kagami’s walked them both to the door –something he never used to do, in part because teenage boys don’t have the manners to show guests out, and partly because by time high school ended, Aomine hadn’t been so much a guest as a semi-permanent fixture, both in the apartment and in Kagami’s life.

(Practically permanent.)

(Supposedly.)

In high school, when Satsuki had been despatched to drag him home, or to practice, or wherever he was meant to be instead of at Kagami’s, it was always _just one more gam_ e –and if there wasn’t, well, there was always next time, and the time after that.

It doesn’t feel like that this time, and it makes him hesitate.

This time, his presence here feels fleeting –like, if he crosses that threshold, Kagami’s going to vanish all over again –with him only in memory.

A lump rises in his throat at the thought, but he swallows it back down, the way he did on the draft night that he realised that Kagami was never coming for him.

It still tastes bitter.

“ –Dai-chan, there’s a cab waiting downstairs,” Satsuki reminds him from the hallway, in that slightly strained voice she uses when they’re on the clock and she’s desperately resisting the urge to check the time every few minutes. He just nods, and it seems to placate her, just a little.

(Maybe it’s better that way.)

(That’s all he was until last night. A memory.)

(He can be one again.)

Hollowly, he wonders if this is what goodbye feels like.

He’s already out the door when Kagami calls out to him.

“Hey,” he says, all of a sudden, voice low and husky. And when Aomine stops dead in his tracks, and turns, there’s an earnest little crease in his brow that makes him seem younger, and uncharacteristically serious. “…It’s been good to see you. Really.”

He says it like it’s important he knows.

“Yeah,” Aomine agrees, and his teeth make a brief appearance as his lips quirk upwards, “You too.” The smile has its bitterness, but the words he means. Kagami seems to understand that, and grins back; offering out his hand.

“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” he says, and Aomine shakes it, because they’re men now, and that’s how men part ways. If his jaw clenches just a little too tight before it drops back to his side, well, no one’s to know.

“Yeah.”

Aomine doesn’t look back, but all the way down the hall he feels the familiar burn of red, red eyes, watching him. And as the elevator doors close, he glimpses a tall figure lingering in the doorway; watching him go.

 

* * *

 

The cab ride is quiet. 

Satsuki’s fidgeting in her seat; eyes nervously darting towards him when she thinks he can’t see, simmering with questions she can’t even begin to put into words. That’s fine with Aomine, because he doesn’t have any answers for her.

Now that it’s just the two of them, she looks tired, and her earlier cheeriness is noticeably absent. And without her smile, there’s no hiding the bags under her eyes.  

It must still be early. The morning sun is still working its way over the horizon, and they encounter little traffic as their taxi navigates the streets. The pavements are glistening –the puddles upon the sidewalks the only remnants of the storm the night before. It’s a pleasant scene –the streets in this part of the city are bright and quaint –but Aomine stares out at the world passing by with practiced apathy.

He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to think about a warm kitchen full of laughter and off-pitch song, and food that tastes like summers long gone. Most of all, he doesn’t want to think about mesmerising red eyes, and the heat they can still stir in his blood.

(He’s spent so long being nothing but cold he can barely believe he was able to feel it at all.)

And yet, he had. His world hadn’t seemed so cold, or grey, and when he looked in the mirror, the man he saw that looked like him, but happy. He’d laughed, and Kagami had laughed with him, and it had felt real, and warm, and for a small time, the hole in his heart had seemed just that little less empty.

(Like there was never meant to be a hole at all.)

(Maybe there wasn’t.)

And yet…

After high school, Kagami had been almost the last to leave. All summer, they’d spent together. At least, it had felt that way. For them, the long nights had been spent sweating it out on worn down concrete street courts to the tune of cicadas and the steady beat of a ball. It had gotten them in trouble, too –being out too late –with their keepers, and more unsavoury sorts. And it had been on one of those long, endless nights, that Aomine had found out, quite by chance, that Kagami happened to be a handy guy to have around in a fight.

(If Aomine closes his eyes and thinks back to the night before, and the soft light of the restaurant kitchen, he can see in his mind’s eye, a faint, silver line, just above Kagami’s right eyebrow –-the barely-there remnants of a fist he ate on Aomine’s behalf when he’d gotten mouthy to the wrong kind of people. He’d needed a trip to the emergency room, and five stitches.)

They’d sat there in silence; Kagami with a dewy coke can swaddled in Aomine’s t-shirt pressed to his bleeding head, and Aomine with Kagami’s blood on his sweatshirt and a split lip –both stubbornly saying nothing. It was his fault they were there and they both knew it, but even when Satsuki chewed them both a new one, Kagami didn’t rat him out. So, while they were waiting for the nurse to return; both too comically large to be sharing a hospital bed, Aomine had looked over at Kagami; his five stitches fresh and ugly, and felt an odd pang of guilt.

“ _Don’t worry about it_ ,” Kagami had said, before he even had the chance to say anything –before Aomine even knew what he’d been about to say. And then he’d glared at him most pointedly –with a surprising amount of heat from a blackening eye. “ _But don’t expect me to save your ass every time_ , _got it_?”

“I was totally _fine_ ,” Aomine had insisted, even though Kagami had literally been there and seen the contrary. “If anything, it was _your_ ass that needed saving –”

“ –Okay, _first of all_ –”

That night, they’d both been politely asked to leave the emergency department. And although he’d earned himself a grounding, it hadn’t quite been the harsh lesson Satsuki liked to claim it was, because from that moment on Aomine had kind of always had the impression that no matter what, Kagami had his back.

(And in return, Aomine had his.)

It had been the longest summer of Aomine’s life, and yet looking back it had been entirely too brief. The two of them had devoted it to the game they both loved, culminating in a friendship, borne of their rivalry, and a future, laid out clear before them.

Before they knew it, summer had drawn to a close. His old classmates and teammates had all gone their separate ways. 

Kagami lingered, longer than the rest. 

Up until the night before he left Japan, he’d been Aomine’s companion. All his belongings had been packed up in boxes; a suitcase of clothes waiting by the door for morning to come, and Aomine had been loitering amongst them, like he was the last thing Kagami wanted to pack. 

 _See ya later_ , he’d said, like always, when he’d left that night.

The following day, as Kagami waved goodbye to his life in Japan, Aomine was nowhere to be seen. 

After how far they’d come, he hadn’t gone to the airport to see him off.

He hadn’t even said goodbye. Not really.

(He hadn’t seen the point. It wasn’t goodbye, after all.)

So he’d thought.

But goodbye it was, because Kagami vanished. And in time, after years of waiting, once a hollow cold had taken root in his heart, Aomine slowly came to understand that things that he had taken for granted would be his forever, he’d lost.

And now, he’s caught a glimpse of it again –so bright. So fierce.

So red.

\--But only a glimpse; like a shooting star across a dark sky. Because apparently that, fate had decided, was all Kagami Taiga was meant to be.

_Here one moment, and gone the next._

It’s cruel, he thinks, to give him a taste of what he’s missed –to let him feel warm, when he thought he could never escape the cold, and to feel sunlight on his face again, when he thought he was doomed to remain in darkness –without any intention of letting him keep it. Better to let him believe it’s gone forever, than fool him into thinking it could be his again. Because he’s not stupid. He and Kagami lead different lives now. He’ll go back to his life, and Kagami will do the same, and life will go on as it used to.

(It’s a lie, but it’s one he tells himself nonetheless.)

He tells himself that maybe this was just the world giving him the goodbye he never said.

 _But maybe_ , a little voice whispers, from somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind. It had been numbed into silence a long time ago, but today of all days, suddenly, it speaks.

It still sounds a little like Tetsu.

… _What_ _if it was meant to be hello?_

He shouldn’t listen. All that comes of listening is disappointment; he should know that by now.

But even though he knows that –knows what false hopes that voice has filled his head with before –the skin of his palm tingles; itches, the way it used to when he didn’t have a basketball in his hand, and he lets himself wonder, what if the voice is right? What if Kagami had offered his hand not in farewell, as he’d feared, but in greeting, as old friends meeting again for the first time?

It's all he's been waiting for.

And it's come too late. He did his time. He listened to that voice, and he waited. For years, he waited, and grew tired of waiting, and then finally, when he'd worn himself out, and even the little voice that sounded like Tetsu didn't believe anymore, he gave up. 

 _It's too late_ , he tells himself, trying to ignore the ghost of Kagami's touch lingering on his fingertips. But the voice is back with a vengeance now, and it wholeheartedly _believes_ , even if he doesn't, and it will not be ignored.  

_Is it?_

(It's not.)

Even though he's long since grown accustomed to the darkness, now that he's seen a glimpse of light, he wants nothing more than to feel it's warmth on his face again. It had infatuated him once --saved him, even --and now, like a fool, he's been enthralled by it all over again. So easily, in fact, that he finds himself faced with the realisation that even after all this time, he'd never given up hope. Not really. Not fully. 

He's seen a flash of colour in his grey world, and with it, the possibility that maybe, things can feel good again. That maybe, basketball can make him _feel_ again.

It's something that's felt so impossible --so out of reach for so long --but now he remembers what that had felt like. (He thought it had been so long he'd forgotten). And now, if there's even the slimmest chance that there's still warmth smouldering in his blood, it might just be within his grasp, and he knows, the way he _knew,_ all those years ago, that Kagami appearing before him was fate, he can't let it go.

Not this time.

Not again. 

 

* * *

 

_Hey, Satsuki._

_Do you believe in fate_? 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's lonely at the top. Aomine's tired of it. Being lonely, that is.

He cried on draft night. 

They all do. Not at the time, of course, because the world is watching, and in its eyes they’re already men --the strongest; the ones destined for greatness. But late that night, after the cameras are off and the media is gone, and they’re finally alone, they cry. Aomine was no different. 

He pretended he didn’t, and Satsuki was kind enough to let him pretend, but he did, because he was still just a kid, after all, and far from home, and everything he’d dared to dream was suddenly coming true. He was going to the NBA. 

And Kagami was coming, too.

It just wasn’t his time yet, he told himself. But he was coming, and soon. 

All he had to do was wait. 

And wait he did, but not idly. When Kagami did finally show up he’d pay for making him wait. He’d tasted defeat at Kagami’s hands before and there was no way he was going to let him steal victory after waltzing into the NBA late. Like high school, with the Generation of Miracles, he figured that this was just another head start. It would make Kagami furious but he always seemed to like it best when he was staring at someone’s back.

And Aomine liked those eyes being firmly fixed on him.

_ Chase  _ me, he’d thought, through all the long evenings and early morning training drills. And Satsuki, on the sidelines, smiled with tears in her eyes because he was smiling, too. 

( _ Catch me, if you can. _ )

 

* * *

In reality, he needn’t have pushed so hard; time was on his side, and amongst the rookies he was one blessed with the kind of raw talent that shines either fleeting, or eternal --but a rookie was still a rookie, and if he wanted a spot on the court he had to earn his place.

Just like every other unproven rookie in the league who dreamed of greatness, he had to prove to the world that he belonged there. 

So that was what he did.

He was young, but he was _exceptional_. As a player, he was a rare talent; that, the world already knew. There was magic in his game. He could shoot, he could dunk, he could break the ankles of the average player in ways that were damn near disrespectful. When he took to the court he stole the eyes of the world, because he was wild, and bright and full of spirit, and the way he played was beautiful. 

But he was young. 

This was a new world; a new game. There were guys bigger than him here, and stronger, and faster. They could push him around here, block him and knock him down. To Satsuki’s (and his coach’s) dismay, he got injured, at first; a lot. Nothing bad, though --just sprains and bruises and bloody noses; nothing that would (or could) keep him off the court.

It felt good. 

It was frustrating --so,  _ so _ frustrating --to quite suddenly not be good enough. In college he was the fastest; yet here there were guys who could run circles around him and barely break a sweat. And although he’d made a name for himself in college as being a threat as an unstoppable, aggressive scorer at one end of the court, and an elite defender on the other; the NBA had players with the talent and experience to not only block him, but force him to the ground. 

...And being dunked on was not something Aomine was accustomed to. In high school, that privilege had belonged almost exclusively to Kagami, and in college anyone who dared had been mercilessly deterred from trying again, but here, it was an unfortunate, and humiliating reality.  

So he decided that that had to stop. 

And it did.

It was frustrating to be knocked around and treated like a child playing with the big kids, but out of that frustration, came growth. The Zone called to him louder than ever before, and he plunged into its depths, and grinned as sparks danced in his eyes, because suddenly, the players who had seemed so impossibly fast to him, didn’t seem quite so fast, and the ones who’d managed to push him around so easily, not so strong. Titans fell before him, and with him at their head, his team --a team who had struggled after their strongest players had deserted them, rose through the ranks; toppling dynasties, young hopefuls, and defending champions alike.

The soon-former king of the game himself bore witness; barring his way, but Aomine would not be stopped, and when he too, fell to his knees, his crown fell with him, and the buzzer that sounded signalled the end of an era. And the star that Aomine Daiki was always meant to be, was born. 

(He should have known what would happen.) 

(Should have remembered, what happened last time.) 

By the time he realised, it was too late. 

The Zone had stopped calling. 

And he’d stopped calling to it, because he didn’t need it anymore; didn’t need it to win. Somewhere along the line he’d grown; enormously so. Satsuki said that it was all his training and perseverance paying off; he’d been first into the gym and last out for months on end, after all --and his body had had to harden to keep up with the Zone. And maybe she was right, but there were others who liked to call it a second awakening of talent --a wealth of power that had lain dormant within him until other talents drew it out of him. Maybe they were right, too. 

What they thought didn’t matter; the fact remained, that he didn’t need his full strength now, to make his opponents bow. No one cared, though, as long as they were winning. And for a time, neither did Aomine, because he was the king of the league, and he was living his dream, and  _ he _ was coming to join him. 

But years came to pass; draft nights came and went, and he didn’t. He waited, because he was young and naive, and while he waited he grew ever stronger, and the victories more hollow, until he realised that practicing would only widen the gap between him and the rest of the game, and the sound of the crowd cheering his name no longer brought him joy. And even as his eyes grew dull, his light shone brighter than ever. 

Too bright. 

Again.  

 

* * *

He can’t for the life of him remember where Kagami’s apartment is. It was so dark out, and the rain was so thick, and there was something about the light dappling his face that hadn’t let his gaze stray. 

He knows Satsuki could tell him, but if he asks she’ll have questions. She’ll find out eventually, but for now it’s his secret to keep. 

He doesn’t know why he’s out this way

(That’s a lie. 

He knows exactly why he’s here.) 

He’s here because he’s tired. 

He told Satsuki it was from the road trip, which is only half a lie, and thus half a truth more than she usually gets from him. She buys it though --because she knows how hard away games can be on players --but just barely, because even after all the parts of himself that he’s hidden from her, she still knows him. She’s not stupid, and her memory isn’t half as bad as she lets him think. He used to love road games, and if he himself recalls that, then she will too. 

Opponents played harder on their own turf; when they were defending their home court. They played with heart; with their pride on the line, and a young Aomine had always relished the thought of facing that.  _ Overcoming _ that. 

Some players -- _ most players _ \--got worn down on road trips; jumping from city to city, and facing hostile crowd after hostile crowd. Not him, though. Never him. 

For him, it was always quite the opposite. 

(Well, used to be.)

Road games. Home games. They’re all the same to him now; all the fans in the world can’t bring a flame to life if all its sparks are dead. He’s used to facing ash no matter what court he’s playing on, and on some level, she sees that. In hindsight he probably should’ve lied a little more convincingly. Or told a little more of the truth. She might have understood that it’s not that he’s tired from being on the road, but rather that it’s being on the road that’s made him realise just how tired he is. 

It’s the same, city after city. They come, and they conquer, and the media storm comes and it rages. They’re so loud, and so earnest, and ask him questions he can’t give honest answers to, and talk at him about stats, about rivals, about records --about things he doesn’t care about anymore. He’s not the boy he was when he first took centre stage, but they don’t seem to realise that. So they talk, without even seeing that talk of equals he’ll never have; of championships that will be won uncontested, does nothing but break his heart, just that little bit more. 

(He’s hidden it so well --even from himself --buried it under layers (years) of apathy, but it’s there, and even if he won’t admit it’s broken, it aches.) 

They tell him how great he is, like it’s something he wants to hear, and behind him, out of sight of the cameras, he can feel the eyes of his teammates boring into him. It’s always been that way, he thinks; players watching him take all the spotlight and leaving them in darkness. They don’t say anything; not to their coach, and never to his face, because he’s the star of the team --the brightest star in the NBA. They’re a good team, everyone says so, but they need him to win. 

And they win. Whenever he plays they win. And even though they celebrate when the final buzzer sounds and the score up in lights declares their victory, it’s all a show. Because all those smiles and those cheers; they’re not for him. His teammates jump into each other’s arms, and those on the bench leap up and fan out onto the court, but none of them run to him. 

Because even though they aren’t champions without him, they don’t have to like that, and they certainly don’t have to like him. 

There’s never been a pretence otherwise. His teammates aren’t his friends. Probably never have been. Probably never will be. Some of them are there because they’ve always been there. Some are there for the money, and others for the easy ride to a championship, but he knows that some of them --most of them --are there because as much as they resent him --his money, his fame, and the talent that bought it all --they’d rather be with him than against him. 

It’s that simple. They’re there to ride his waves instead of making their own. Sure, when they’re on the court they function as a team, and when the camera’s on they smile and tell the media what it is they want to hear, even if it kills them inside, but when they think he can’t see, and even when they know he can, they all look at him the way he hates. Because he’s who he is. They’re jealous, and they’re bitter, and they’re a little afraid. 

Satsuki tries. With them, and with him, because she has some romantic notion of what a team is supposed to be, and whatever they are, isn’t that. Or, maybe it is, just he’s not a part of it. She’s long since given up hiding how desperately she wants him to make friends and play nice with his teammates. He’s given up telling her he doesn’t want, or need that.

(It’s almost the truth, but not quite. Every now and then, when he comes out of the showers to find the locker room hauntingly empty, again, he thinks of the emptiness that waits for him in the hollowness of his apartment, and hates it.)

It’s been like that for years, now. He’s grown good at tuning out when they whisper of plans that aren’t for his ears; grown used to always being held at arm’s length. He’s not the same as them, after all. And in the city he can sometimes escape it, but on the road, it shows. It’s on the buses, in the empty seat next to him, and the jokes and songs that he’s never felt a part of, and in the hotels, when his teammates secretly draw straws to room with him, and sneak out when they think he’s sleeping. 

Some nights he eats alone. 

(Most nights he eats alone.)

They think he doesn’t know when they go out without him, but he knows. He just doesn’t care anymore. 

Or, didn’t. 

This time, he can’t ignore it. He thought he’d gotten so good at it too --at being alone --and maybe he had, but the truth of it is that he hates it. He hates watching them slip out late at night, and hearing them sneak back in in the early hours of the morning smelling of booze and memories he’ll never be a part of. He hates lying in an empty room while the cold creeps back in; trapped in a prison of his own talent’s making, far beyond the heights that they will ever be able to reach, and nowhere to go but higher. 

The world may see him as a monster on the court, but it’s his teammates that make him feel like one off it. 

( _ Why _ ?) 

He’d never wanted that. Not ever again. All he’d been was a kid with a dream who could work magic with a basketball. He just wanted to play. It’s not his fault he’s a star. 

It’s what he was born to be, but that’s not all he is. 

(Why don’t any of them see that?) 

And that’s the secret he won’t tell Satsuki; the whole truth of why he’s here. He’s here, because after weeks (years) of being Daiki:  _ The Aomine Daiki _ , he wants, just for a little while, for someone to let him just be  _ Aomine _ again. 

The only problem is finding him. 

Aomine doesn’t know this part of town. He’s never had a reason to come here, after all. And, if it hadn’t been for a chance encounter on a rainy night, probably never would have. 

But, as fate would have it, there he was. 

And couldn’t for the life of him, remember where Kagami lived. 

It was big --he remembered that --but despite how far they were from the high rises of the city, apartment blocks were still a dime a dozen, and all of them looked the same. Nothing looked familiar. The only landmark he had to go by in this part of the city was the old tumbledown basketball court he’d glimpsed through the tinted windows of his taxi once before, and it was merely by chance that the bus he’d found himself on had passed it by. 

There was a bus stop right by it, and despite himself he’d found himself drawn towards the rusty links in the fence by the sound of a ball beating upon concrete. It was a different group of kids this time --these ones were younger, with less control and coordination, but no less enthusiasm. He’d watched them, for a time; one hand braced upon the fence, with fingers curling into the links. They weren’t very good --not yet, at least --the ball sailed uselessly through the air too many times, and clattered off the rim of the hoop whenever it even made it that high, but they were undaunted by their failures, and played on, beaming from ear to ear. 

_ They look like they’re having fun. _

Too soon he realises he’s lingered too long, and reluctantly tears himself away from the fence before he’s caught staring. He didn’t come here to wallow in nostalgia. 

(Or did he.) 

He’s not sure how long he wanders for, wandering in what feels like circles through the same blocks. Any landmarks he might have gleaned from the car ride to Kagami’s apartment had been swallowed up by the storm at the time, and even if they hadn’t, he’s not sure he would’ve noticed. 

(There was just something about driving through the dappled street light that made Kagami seem to shimmer --there a second, then gone the next, and Aomine couldn’t tear his gaze away, just to make sure he wasn’t about to disappear again, forever.) 

In the end it’s no good. 

He should’ve known better. 

Really, he should’ve just swallowed his pride and asked Satsuki. But he hadn’t, and now he was tired --he hadn’t slept much last night (or the night before that; not really --not with his teammates playing poker in the room next door), and stranded in a strange part of town with nowhere to go but back to an empty apartment. Maybe not empty, if Satsuki was there, fussing over his absence and tutting over the sparse contents of his fridge. But, as much as he loved her --and he did, even if he didn’t show her that as often as she deserved --she wasn’t enough to fill all that cold, dead space up there.  

(He doesn’t want to go back. Not yet.) 

(Especially if Satsuki’s going to say anything about the state of his fridge. Which she will. She makes a point of it whenever she comes over. He doesn’t see why he should bother with keeping it well stocked --he doesn’t cook much anyways, and keeping food in the house gives her ideas.) 

His stomach turns at the thought of Satsuki making do with whatever is in his fridge. He’s sure there’s stuff in there from the last time she tried to treat him to dinner, and he’s pretty sure she’s not past trying to recycle it in another dish. Frankly, it’s enough to set him off food for a week, but somehow the thought does a little to brighten his mood as a small smile rises in the corner of his lips unbidden. 

_ Kagami would never let her in his kitchen if he knew.  _

He chases the thought away almost as soon as it comes to mind, because it’s naive of him to think that there’s any chance of that happening. Sure, Kagami offered, but sometimes words are just words. 

As it turns out, the thought of Satsuki’s cooking after what’s felt like the longest road trip of his career does little to entice him back to his apartment. 

In the end he finds himself wandering again; this time for somewhere to eat. He figures he’s come all the way out here, it might as well not be for nothing. The burger joints and chain restaurants he passes by --they’re packed fit to bursting at this time of day and he’s not in the mood for crowds. Really, he’s not in the mood for food, but if he doesn’t eat now, then Satsuki will make him when he gets back, and he knows which option his stomach prefers. Unfortunately for him, while it’s prime time for junk food and all things fried, the family restaurants that seem to riddle the neighbourhood don’t seem to have opened their doors up quite yet. Everywhere he passes by seems to have signs of life in the kitchens and behind their counters, but the chairs are still up and the doors are still locked, and he isn’t so desperate for food that he’s going to loiter outside until they’re good and ready. So he moves on; just another stranger going about their daily business. As before, his height seems to attract undue attention, but without the expensive suit, and with a cap pulled down over his face, he might as well just be another average civilian.

 

* * *

It isn’t long until he finally finds somewhere that’s open for business. In fact, he smells it long before he sees it, and it’s his nose that eventually leads him to its door. 

It’s not anything particularly fancy, but whatever’s cooking inside smells so incredible, and when he tries the door it opens easily and a bell jingles overhead. At the sound, the young waiter at the front counter looks up; phone to his ear and a pen in one hand, and gestures with his free hand for Aomine to help himself to a table. 

He sinks down into the first free one he finds. For a place that doesn’t exactly look to be upper class dining, it sure seems popular; a bunch of tables are already taken and at least half are already reserved. And by the sounds of things, the place must offer a takeout service or something, because almost as soon as the waiter at the desk hangs, up the phone (much to his obvious exasperation) starts ringing again. 

“Hey, Boss,” he hollers dryly through the pass into the kitchen over the sound of the phone ringing, “You got a minute?” 

Judging by the waiter’s dramatic and overtly teenage eye roll, his boss apparently  _ doesn’t  _ have a minute, but as soon as the guy picks up the phone, pen at the ready, the kitchen door swings open; loosing aromas that make Aomine’s stomach sigh in ways he didn’t think it could anymore. The kitchen sounds like chaos; he’s been around Satsuki’s kitchen nightmares long enough to find suspicious crashes concerning, but none of the other patrons seem to share the sentiment. In fact, when the boss barrels out of the kitchen hastily tying a black apron over his chefs whites and obviously cursing through the notepad clenched between his teeth, a couple of them even laugh, like this is a common occurrence. 

“Busy night ahead?” one of them chuckles, and gets an agonised affirmative in response. He’s almost regained his composure by the time he reaches Aomine’s table, which is a good thing because suddenly Aomine’s the one struggling to keep his. 

His hair’s a mess, and the apron is new, but there’s no mistaking that once again, by some miracle, Aomine has somehow stumbled upon Kagami Taiga. 

For a second there, even Kagami doesn’t realise; he’s too busy fussing with his apron and trying to find where he’s gone and left his pen. It’s a good thing, too. It means he doesn’t notice Aomine staring. 

“Hey, sorry about that,” Kagami finally manages to get out, and finally gets a good look at him as he slips a menu in front of him, “We’re having a bit of a...Aomine?” 

Aomine’s really not sure which of them is more surprised. 

(But the look on Kagami’s face is truly priceless.)

(What he doesn’t know is, so is the one on his.)

“Hey,” is apparently all he can come up with on the spot. It comes out really lame. Not what he was aiming for. He gives the restaurant a quick once over as an excuse to look away from Kagami’s face, and tries again. “...So this is what your place looks like.” 

_ Nailed it.  _

It still sounds lame to his ears, but Kagami mustn’t think so because the surprise is finally starting to melt off his face; giving way to a lopsided grin full of warmth. 

“Yeah, this uh...this is it,” he chuckles, awkwardly scrubbing the back of his neck as he follows Aomine’s gaze around the room, “I kinda forgot to show you around last time, didn’t I?” 

Once upon a time, Aomine probably would have rubbed it in, but decides against it, just this once. Kagami looks like he genuinely feels bad for being a bad host, and it just doesn’t feel right to mess with him when really, he’s been anything but. 

“...Don’t worry about it,” he says instead, picking up his menu for an excuse not to look at Kagami’s face when he says, “I’m here now, aren’t I?” Not looking doesn’t help. He should’ve remembered that the warmth Kagami radiates is something that doesn’t have to be seen to be felt. 

“Yeah,” Kagami chuckles, despite himself, and Aomine can’t quite stop the corners of his lips turning up just so. “I guess you are.” His words are soft, and unexpectedly warm, and when Aomine finally looks up, he finds Kagami’s eyes firmly fixed on him. For a moment he doesn’t even seem to realise that he’s staring, and from the way he hurriedly blinks away when he’s caught, Aomine wasn’t meant to have seen. 

“Oh, uh...sorry,” he mumbles as he suddenly seems to remember where they are. He quickly runs a hand through his hair to collect himself and gestures at the empty place laid at the seat across the table from Aomine. “How are you doin'? Uh, are you waiting for someone?” 

“Hmm?” Aomine hums, and then shakes his head, “Nah, it’s just me.” 

Kagami quirks an eyebrow. 

“Oh, cool.” Aomine can’t think of many things less cool than dinner for one at what’s clearly a restaurant that caters for company. “You want anything to drink, then, or just food?” He twirls his pen between two fingers, suddenly all business. It’s a change Aomine had witnessed --and been captivated by --dozens, if not hundreds of times in his youth, but that doesn’t make it any less jarring to see him turn so serious about something that wasn’t basketball. 

(It doesn’t make it any less captivating.)

In the end, Aomine settles on ordering a burger and fries; an odd choice really, when he’d passed up half a dozen burger joints on his way here, but one of the wait staff had carried a burger stack past his table and Kagami had lost his composure again when he’d actually had to wipe some drool away from the corner of his mouth. 

“Okay, looks like you’re getting a burger,” he’d laughed, and grinned smugly when Aomine sulked down low in his seat. “Won’t be long.” 

He’d smiled when he’d left, and Aomine found himself craning his neck to watch him go. He thought he’d gotten away with it, too, but when the door swung shut behind Kagami, and he tore his gaze away, he caught one of Kagami’s underlings observing him through the pass, and the intrigued eyebrow he had raised was definitely intended for him. 

* * *

 

 

The same guy comes out of the kitchen ten minutes later, carrying a drink aloft on a tray like some kind of prize. Without missing a beat, he makes a beeline for Aomine’s table, and wordlessly deposits the drink in front of him with a heavy  _ thunk _ .

“Hey, I didn’t order this,” Aomine informs him as he draws away, pointing at the drink and obviously looking as confused as he sounds. His server gives him an odd look, and then smirks, like he knows something Aomine doesn’t, which he can’t say he likes. 

“ ‘S from the boss,” he replies with a shrug, “...Said it’s on the house. Enjoy.” He does a little bow in parting, which again, Aomine doesn’t think he likes. He’s pretty sure the guy’s making fun of him, but he’s not sure why, or about what. He turns his attention to the drink that’s been laid out for him. 

_ From Kagami?  _

Aomine stares at it for a long moment, brow furrowing. Why would Kagami send him a drink? Sure, he shouted him a couple of beers last time he was here, but that was beer, and this is definitely not. 

In the end, he tries it, and immediately almost has to bury his face in his hands. 

It’s thick, and milky, and sweet, but not too much so. 

It’s a banana shake. 

_ He remembered.  _

Kagami chooses that exact moment to make an appearance on the restaurant floor, and although his arms are piled high with steaming plates of food destined for other tables, he flashes a teasing grin in Aomine’s direction; the kind of wicked Aomine’s missed all these years. 

It always used to make Aomine want to throttle him.

Turns out, it still does. 

Fortunately for Kagami, enough time’s passed that that sort of horseplay’s no longer on the table, so Aomine just has to settle with sending him a mutinous glare across the room; the low light of his corner doing well to hide the heat rising in his cheeks. The shake he keeps, though. It’s good, and banana milk was always his favourite. His mother used to put boxes of the stuff in his lunch, which wasn’t a big deal when he was a kid, because they were meant for kids, but the trend had continued into high school. Satsuki was the only one who’d known, and she’d been sworn to secrecy, but somehow, his devil of a captain had found out, and outed him at a training camp with Seirin. 

Kagami had laughed his ass off, and Aomine had tipped a box over his head. 

(They had had to run laps until they passed out as punishment for fighting, and they hadn’t spoken for days after while Aomine sulked, but the next time he rifled through Kagami’s fridge there was a carton of banana milk waiting for him, as a peace offering.) 

It’s a memory he’s not thought about in a long time; one he’d almost forgotten himself, but suddenly it’s come flooding back to him in a wave of warmth. 

(It turns out, banana’s still his favourite.)

_ What an asshole,  _ he thinks, chewing on his straw to disguise the way a smile toys on the edges of his lips.  _ I can’t believe he remembered. _

* * *

  
They look short in the kitchen tonight . Aomine’s pretty sure that the last time he’d been there the place had been packed with staff, but tonight, in the brief moments he manages glimpses into the kitchen it seems like there are about half as many. The cooks are doubling as wait staff, bustling to and from the kitchen, red in the face and stony with focus. Order has finally replaced chaos, with the crashes finally subsiding, and meals pouring out into the restaurant at pace. The phone’s still ringing off the hook but the kid working the till seems unfazed; waving new patrons in with one hand and tossing new orders into the kitchen with the other. 

It’s a high energy environment, and Kagami seems to thrive on it. 

“Busy night?” Aomine asks, when he brings out his food. Not that he notices the food, at first, because Kagami’s too busy stealing the show. 

He’s glowing. 

(It suits him.) 

Much like his coworkers, there’s a thin sheen of sweat dampening his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed, but there’s no sign of tiredness in his face. Instead, there’s a determined heat in his eyes, and the satisfied grin on his face is all teeth. 

“Yeah, you could say that,” Kagami admits with a small laugh, taking stock of the steadily filling restaurant with unadulterated pride. “I got four guys off tonight, but we’ll manage.” 

It seems that, even after all these years, Kagami can’t resist a good challenge. That magnetic spirit that had so entranced him is still there; just as bright, just as thrilling. Even if he wanted to, Aomine couldn’t look away, because this is definitely Kagami as he always remembered him; facing down a hurdle full of pride, and with a steadfast belief in his abilities and those of his comrades. 

(He thinks there was maybe a time when Kagami looked like that for him.) 

His throat feels dry. And when he reaches for his shake, he realises with confusion that his palms are clammy.  

“What’s with the shake?” he asks, to distract himself, absent-mindedly rubbing a sweaty palm against his thigh. It doesn’t help much. 

At the sudden change of subject, Kagami looks a little alarmed, like Aomine had just brought up some sort of secret he wasn’t meant to be privy to. 

“Oh,” he remarks, brushing a hand back through his hair. From the disappointed way his mouth turns out, Aomine’s question came out wrong. “Do you not like them anymore? I just thought...” 

“ --No, that’s not it,” Aomine hurried assures him before he can deflate. “I...Never mind,” he decides. It doesn’t matter, he supposes. Kagami was just trying to be nice. “It was good. Thanks.” 

That’s definitely the right thing to say, because Kagami’s face lights up again.

(Maybe with a touch of relief.)   

“No problem,” he grins, and then adds, as a bell rings emphatically at the pass, “Hey, it's uh...I'm glad you swung by again... Enjoy your meal.” The bell rings again, more insistently this time, and Kagami rolls his eyes. “I’m coming, I’m  _ coming _ …” 

With Kagami gone again, Aomine can finally turn to his food, and when his stomach moans appreciatively, he realises just how hungry he actually is. Which is a good thing, because the meal laid out in front of him is enormous. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen a burger this big in his life. There’s meat and bacon stacked high, and dripping with sauce, and the smell wafting up from it almost makes him  _ moan _ . 

There’s no other way of putting it. It’s a thing of beauty. 

He ploughs into it ravenously, completely ignoring the knife and fork set out on the table. He’s always been a firm believer that burgers are for hands, and even if he’s not in some shitty fast food joint he’s going to stick by it. He gets sauce all over his fingers and makes a complete mess of his plate but he doesn’t care. It’s delicious, like Kagami’s cooking always is, and warms him from the inside out. Usually his belly has little interest in food; (Satsuki’s fussed over his steadily shrinking appetite over the years), and why would it when everything he eats tastes like ashes in his mouth --but suddenly it  _ wants _ , and in a big way. 

He’s happy to oblige, and licks his fingers clean when he’s done. And when he’s done, he sighs, and relaxes into his chair; content. It’s an odd feeling, but he thinks he likes it. 

(It feels good, to find joy in food again.) 

(He hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed that.)

On one hand, he wishes there was more, because everything around him smells so good, but on the other he knows he couldn’t eat another bite. Food is pouring from the kitchen at a superhuman rate, and as wistfully as he watches steaks and pies and curries fly by, he knows he’s well and truly stuffed. It’ll probably be a while before he’s ready to peel himself from his seat, which is fine with him, because he has no intention of moving any time soon. 

He’s sure that if he waits, Kagami will come to him. 

(He’s been sure of that before, but it’s different, this time.)

 

* * *

 

Time ticks by. All of the customers who were already there when Aomine arrived have all paid, and left, and the kitchen seems to be over the worst of the rush. Kagami’s yet to have a moment to spare --he must be exhausted, but it doesn’t show --but Aomine finds that he doesn’t mind so much. He likes watching him work. And from the way Kagami glances his way every now and then --like he’s just checking to make sure Aomine’s still there, he likes it, too. 

(He’s missed this.) 

As it turns out, he’s right. It feels like an eternity has passed, but eventually, when the biggest tables have been served and the kitchen has the precious opportunity to catch its breath, Kagami flings himself down in the seat opposite him, and sends an icy bottle of beer his way. The majority of the night’s stress must be over, because he relaxes into his seat with an altogether indecent sigh of relief as he works the top two buttons of his uniform open.

Frankly, the amount of skin the action reveals is a little scandalous. 

Not that Aomine notices, of course. 

“Phew. That’s better,” Kagami sighs, wiping a bead of sweat off with the towel hanging loose around his neck. Suddenly, Aomine kind of wants to do the same. “I’m beat.” 

“You look it.” He can’t help it. It just slips out. 

“ _... _ So I’ve heard,” Kagami deadpans, taking no offense, and jerks a thumb at the kitchen when Aomine raises an eyebrow at his tone, “My guys have gotten it in their heads that I work too much.” 

Aomine wouldn’t be surprised if that were true. 

“Do you?” he inquires, and Kagami gives the game away with a small, guilty grin. 

“...Probably.” 

“That sounds about right.” It did. The Kagami he used to know never knew when to quit. It was one of his best and most infuriating qualities. “Still overdoing it, huh?” 

“What can I say? I like what I do,” he shrugs over the rim of his beer. 

_ More than basketball?  _ Aomine wants to ask. He doesn’t, though, because neither answer is one he wants to hear. It wouldn’t be fair to ask; not on either of them.

“That’s good to hear,” he says instead, and surprises both of them by adding, “...You seem to do it pretty well, too.” Kagami looks vaguely taken aback by the unsolicited praise, but makes an admirable recovery.

“...Is that you saying you liked it?” he queries, glancing down at Aomine’s scraped plate. From the wicked grin he’s wearing he already knows the answer; just wants to hear Aomine say it. 

Unfortunately for him, Aomine knows the game, and isn’t that obliging. 

“I wouldn’t have eaten it if I hated it,” he sniffs petulantly, and looks away when Kagami snorts.

“It’s never easy with you, is it?” he chuckles good-naturedly. 

“I could say the same for you,” Aomine shoots back, but there’s irony in their accusations, and they know it, because  _ this  _ \--sitting here, with all the time in the world, is easy. Easier than Aomine thought it would have been. Easier than it should have had any right to be. And when Kagami grins at him; wide and toothy, and honest, it feels like the most natural thing, smiling back. 

“Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

 

* * *

 

The rhythm they fall into is old, and familiar, but that’s not to say it’s completely unchanged. It’s smoother, now that they’re older --now that their tempers have evened out, and their teenage hostility has lost its sway --but it still feels like  _ them.  _ It feels comfortable, and Kagami must feel the same because he sinks down low into his chair with a groan of relief, like he’s not planning on going anywhere, and when he stretches his legs out under the table, one of them catches against Aomine’s, and doesn’t flinch away.

It would be an unflattering angle on anyone else, but the look on his face; so unguarded and content, is priceless. He looks exhausted, but his eyes are still bright and attentive, and centered firmly on Aomine, like he doesn’t want to miss a thing. 

Aomine’s used to having eyes on him, and usually he hates it. All those strange eyes, looking to their heart’s content; seeing only what they want to see, without ever really seeing him. 

But with Kagami, it’s different.

(Ever since he can remember, it’s been different.) 

No one’s ever looked at him the way Kagami has. 

(Does.) 

Even Satsuki, who’s made it her life’s mission to figure him out in his entirety, has never come close. 

(Aomine never stopped to wonder, if maybe he wasn’t the only one who’d been entranced.) 

He’s staring, again. 

Kagami doesn’t seem to mind --there’s no way he doesn’t notice, this time --but Aomine, because he’s sure he shouldn’t be staring, and still isn’t completely sure why he is, tries his best to pretend he wasn’t. 

(It doesn’t work, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

He asks how work’s been, to change the subject, and glares when Kagami makes a crack about his shitty small talk. But he answers, all the same; glowing with pride like he’s secretly pleased that Aomine’s asked. He tells him about how busy it’s been, a new recipe he’s trying, and the misadventures of one of his idiot cooks. And Aomine listens intently --pretends not to, of course, because old habits die hard no matter how much Satsuki might try to curb him of them, but Kagami, it seems, still remembers this game of theirs, and is willing to play. 

He’s not used to it. No one talks at him like this; so open, and easy.

(It feels good.)

One story rolls into the next, dredging up memories of times that Aomine hasn’t even thought about in god knows how long, and before he knows it, they’re trading anecdotes of college like baseball cards. He’s a little surprised at himself. He hasn’t spared a thought for his college days in quite some time. 

He’d forgotten how much he’d enjoyed it. 

Not the actual college part of it, he clarifies, and Kagami snickers, like he knows the feeling, and asks what he ended up studying. Aomine tells him he didn’t exactly study, and feels a small spark of pride when Kagami laughs at that. In reality, his course had never mattered much to him, because he’d never intended to be there for more than a year. 

(In hindsight, it might not have been so bad.)

He hasn’t talked about college in forever --not even with Satsuki --but as the evening wears on, he finds himself telling Kagami about the biology class he actually kinda liked (even if he swore to Satsuki he didn’t), and the guy down the hall who always pulled pranks, and the one time (it was more than one time) he and his roommate accidentally set the communal microwave on fire. And Kagami despairs, and laughs as he calls him a moron, and the smothering weight of Aomine’s world begins to helplessly melt away, like an eternal winter finally yielding to spring.    


The pressure of god-given talent is crushing. But here, right now, it feels like it can’t touch him; it doesn’t matter who he is on the court, or who people think he is off it, because Kagami has never given a  _ shit  _ about his so-called  _ god-given talent.  _

It’s something that fills him with an overwhelming sense of relief, because he’s sick of people --of his team, and all the watching world --looking at him and seeing a superstar. Or a monster. 

For once, he gets to be just like anyone else. 

(For a little while, he gets to be himself.)

 

* * *

 

The evening has almost worn itself out when Kagami brings up the road trip. 

It’s late, and the restaurant is all but closed. The kid at the front desk is wiping down tables and the rest of the kitchen staff are finally starting to flag. Every now and then one of them will peek out through the pass in a way that makes him feel like maybe he’s overstayed his welcome, but Kagami doesn’t seem to share his staff’s agitation. He’s in no rush, and tells them so when they cheerfully point out that this is the third night running he’s managed to get out of dish duty. 

They don’t really mind, Kagami assures him, when Aomine realises just how long he’s kept him there. If they minded, he says, they wouldn’t keep bringing them beer. 

(He’s pretty sure neither of them have been ordering any, but for some reason, they keep bringing them.) 

Not that he minds. Kagami doesn’t seem to mind either, although each time one of them swings by with a fresh round, he regards them with a distinct element of suspicion. 

The most recent one, he’s barely touched. 

Instead, he’s toying with it; distractedly turning it in one hand as moisture gathers on the glass, like something’s bothering him. It can’t be the beer; it’s what they’ve been drinking all night, and as coy as their waiters have been, they don’t seem to be what’s playing on Kagami’s mind. 

Aomine asks, and wishes he hadn’t. 

“...You didn’t play in Chicago,” Kagami states, and the words hit him like a slap in the face.  It probably wasn’t his intention, because it’s only the truth. He  didn’t play in Chicago. Not because he couldn’t; not because he was injured, and not because he needed the rest, but because he hates playing against teams like that. 

It’s not a question, but for some reason Kagami’s looking at him for some kind of answer, so that’s what he tells him. And they both know what he means by that. 

The team in Chicago is weak. Plagued by losses and bad choices, it’s been an embarrassment of a franchise for years now. It’s a shadow of its former glory; a proud team fallen from grace, and the dynasty it once was, little more than a fading memory. A team like that doesn’t stand a chance against a player like him. Everyone knows it. It’s really not so strange that he didn’t play. It’s common knowledge that superstars do not concern themselves with the common rabble. 

That’s something that doesn’t seem to sit right with Kagami. 

“You shouldn’t do that, y’know,” he says offhandedly, his tone catching Aomine off guard. He’s stopped fidgeting. “...Sit out games like that.” And although his words are casual, his eyes are suddenly serious, and molten with the kind of heat that always used to strike up drums in Aomine’s chest. 

(He thinks he can hear them again.)

“Why?” Aomine asks coolly, and probably a little more antagonistic than necessary. Maybe it’s intentional, and maybe it’s not --he's not used to anyone talking to him like that --but there’s something irresistible about Kagami when he gets  _ that look  _ in his eye; he’s never been able to stop himself pushing, just to feel Kagami push back. 

“Coz it’s insulting,” he retorts, eyes narrowed, and smouldering. “They might be a bad team, but all those guys worked hard to be where they are. Not playing just coz you’re better than them…” He shakes his head and then centres his attention squarely on Aomine, “...I know I’d hate being looked down on like that.”

In the dim restaurant lighting, the red of his eyes is quite striking, and Aomine shivers. 

“...Wouldn’t you?” 

( _ Remember _ , is what he’s really saying; is what his eyes are saying.  _ Do you remember what that felt like _ ?)

Aomine can't look away. This is the Kagami that he remembers best of all. There’s an intensity when he gets like this; when he gets serious about something, that has always captivated him. 

Determined.  _ Proud _ . 

[A force to be reckoned with.] 

It had been as mesmerising as ever, seeing it --that same wild, raw energy --in the kitchen after all these years, but now it’s back on him, and it feels  _ right _ . 

( _ Chase me. _ )

Unconsciously, Aomine wets his lips. 

It’s been a long time since someone’s looked at him like that. 

 

* * *

“I’ll play next time, if it means so much to you,” he finds himself saying, and for some reason, it does. He’s not sure exactly why he says it, or why he thinks he means it. Maybe it’s the sheer earnestness in Kagami’s face, or maybe it’s because, on some level, he does remember. Being looked down on. 

[It’s been too long that he no longer remembers how it felt. But he remembers that he hated it.]

* * *

 

 

Kagami seems satisfied with his answer.

“My coach’ll think I’ve gone crazy,” Aomine adds, just so Kagami knows what kind of trouble such a promise is going to stir up. It’s a long time since he stopped fighting for time on the court. In the beginning, it had been an unending battle --he’d never gotten on well with coaches, after all --and the first time his coach had made him sit, he’d been furious. Refused, and gotten himself suspended for his efforts. 

But that was in the beginning. He’s come a long way since then, and the precarious power struggle between star player, and coach, has long since settled into an uneasy stalemate. 

Yeah, if he starts demanding to play against bottom feeders out of the blue, they’ll think he’s lost his mind. His coach. His team. Satsuki. 

[Maybe he has.] 

He can’t help it. 

All it takes is a glimpse of Kagami’s face for Aomine to know why. 

Kagami knows how to light a fire in him. And how to keep one burning. It was this same face, wasn’t it, and the conviction it held, that had made him believe in the first place. In him, and in the future, and in basketball, again.  

[It’s almost enough to make a believer of him again.] 

[Maybe he wants it to be.]

* * *

 

“...I hope I’m not interrupting, am I?” 

Both he and Kagami jump. Neither of them had noticed Kagami’s sous-chef approaching them. 

He’s smirking, and Aomine doesn’t think he likes it. 

“What?” 

“Nothin’ boss,” he titters innocently, “...We --” He jerks his head in the direction of the kitchen where a daydreaming cook and a yawning kitchen hand are hanging out the pass, “ --Were wondering if you were planning on closing up shop tonight…” 

“What are you -- _ oh, shit, is that the time?? _ ” Kagami glances up at the clock hanging on the wall behind the counter and does an alarmed double take when he realises just how late it’s gotten. “Why didn’t you guys say anything before --” 

“Like I said, boss,” the sous-chef shrugs, making a very poor attempt at concealing a grin. “...Didn’t want to interrupt.” 

“Ugh, jeez…” Kagami groans, rocking back in his chair and raking a hand down his face. “I had no idea.” 

Neither did Aomine. He can hardly believe his eyes when the time on his phone checks out, but the dozens of missed calls are a fairly solid indicator of how much time had passed. They’re all from Satsuki, and he has no intention of listening to her voicemails. She’s worried, but then again, she’s always worried. 

Even so, there’s only one text. 

_ [Have you eaten?]  _

He messages her back. About four hours too late, but a reply nonetheless. 

_ [yeah] _

Silence fills the space between them. The night is over, and they both know it. It's always been inevitable, leaving always is, and it won't be put off any longer. Kagami's got his world to go back to, and Aomine has his. 

(For what it's worth, Kagami looks reluctant to let him go.)

“...I guess I should probably give the guys a hand,” he sighs apologetically, finally levering himself to his feet and looking a little sheepish as he adds, “Sorry for uh, keeping you; you probably wanna get home, right?” 

He couldn’t be more wrong, but he’s not to know that. 

The sous-chef rings him up at the counter while Kagami disappears off to finish up in the kitchen. Aomine’s only partly listening as he rattles off his bill, and the guy’s eyes bulge when he hands a note over in payment. 

“...Keep the change,” he mumbles distractedly, eyes wandering. He can’t stop them drifting towards the pass; searching for a glimpse of red amongst the maze of stainless steel. The guy stares at him, deadpan.

“...You know this is like a two hundred per cent tip, right?” he says flatly, but Aomine barely blinks. 

“Is it?” Maths has never been his strong suit. 

“Yeah, it is,” the guy assures him, deadpan. 

“Keep the change,” Aomine says again, and that’s the end of that, because his wandering eyes have paid off. Kagami’s appeared at the pass; a somewhat bashful grin on his face and a package in hand. He leans heavily on the counter and hands the plastic carry bag through to Aomine. 

“What’s this?” Aomine frowns, opening it and peering beadily at the contents; a box, a handful of napkins, and what looks like a takeout menu. It’s warm, and smells like home. He breathes deeply, and corrects himself. It’s cherry. 

“Cherry pie,” the sous-chef answers dryly, before Kagami can. He sends his boss a sly look before looking busy with the till. “S’ not usually on our menu but the boss here decided he felt like whipping one up tonight; ain’t that right, boss?” 

“ _ Yeah _ ,” Kagami deadpans, glaring meaningfully at his employee. “...Anyways, there was uh, there was some left over so I thought you might as well take it home.” Aomine’s pretty sure there’s some sort of wordless exchange going on between Kagami and his sous-chef but if there is, it’s going right over his head. 

“Oh,” is all he can muster. “Cool. Satsuki loves this sort of shit. Cherries, I mean.” 

Kagami doesn’t say anything to that, just grins at him. It’s warm, and real, and the corners of his eyes crease, and Aomine has to look away to hide the way the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. Even with his back turned, he can feel Kagami’s eyes on him; watching him --memorising his shape, and the way he moves. 

“You have a good night, Aomine _ , _ ” he says to his back, not without fondness, and then, in Japanese, the way he always used to, when leaving meant nothing because there was always another day to come back to, “ _ See you later _ .” 

[Aomine wonders, if it’s possible to feel homesick for a time, rather than a place.] 

“ _ Yeah _ ,” he replies back, the way he always used to. “ _ See ya. _ ”  

* * *

Outside, the wind has a bite to it, and the bus shelter he’s taken refuge under does little to keep it off him, but strangely enough, Aomine finds it doesn’t bother him. Perhaps that’s just how it is, when there’s warmth inside you. Or rather, on his lap. The box Kagami left him with is still piping hot and makes the cold night smell like summer. Curious, he lifts the lid with a finger --almost burns himself --and scoffs when he sees what’s inside. 

Kagami’s such a liar. It’s not leftovers. It’s a whole damn pie. 

_ What an idiot.  _

He’ll have to give him hell for that next time. 

_ Next time.  _

The thought makes his heart leap into his throat. And this time, with no one around to see, he lets himself smile. 

It’s only when he’s on the motorway, speeding halfway home with a warm box in his lap and a far-off look in his eyes –the good kind; the kind playing back old memories without sound –that he realizes that he probably should've asked for Kagami’s phone number. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Writing parts of this broke my heart, I gotta say. Leave a comment if you enjoyed! Thanks for reading!


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